


The Laundromat 'Verse

by ozonecologne



Series: The Laundromat 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Punk, Cas is a punk but he's also a big softie, Dean's the one with the anger problem ;), Fluff, M/M, Soap bubbles, Weirdness, punk!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 48,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4333733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Dean runs a laundromat. The punk kids come to him for all their clothing repair needs.</em><br/><em>That includes their bad boy ringleader, Castiel.</em><br/>A collection of ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my new friend [tumblr user centtaton](http://www.centtaton.tumblr.com) for teaching me a lot about the specifics of laundromats. It's been so incredibly interesting to get real life input and this AU is only better because of you.
> 
> Also, check out this [playlist](http://8tracks.com/apiaristcas/laundromat-verse) that my buddy [apiaristcas](http://www.apiaristcas.tumblr.com) made for this fic!

His building is a relic from the 70s.

There used to be huge windows across the front, but Winchester Laundromat Cleaners was plunked right at the lip of the narrow sidewalk on a pot-holed back road and enough rocks have been thrown in that Dean had to abandon that design feature. Instead of windows, thick ribbed black iron falls like curtains across the front. He’s got to clean graffiti off of them at least once every three months. The door’s been tunneled further in from the sidewalk, to give the illusion of refuge and privacy. The little triangle that held the “Winchester” part of “Winchester Laundromat Cleaners” has long since fallen or been taken down, along with the N in “Laundromat.” Dean doesn’t really have the money to replace them.

Truthfully, it’s kind of a dump. It’s outdated and dirty and in the shittiest neighborhood in the whole city.

But to Dean, it’s home.

The sharp, rousing aroma of vinegar and perc is like a kick in the gut every morning – it stings Dean’s eyes – but the bleach smells clean, smells like a brand new morning where everything’s pristine and in its place, and the lilac fabric softener that Dean favors is like a warm hug (he tells Sam it’s the cheapest but it’s actually $4 more than the bargain brand). The washing machines out front – eighteen of them, and thirty stacked dryers against the opposite wall – are a sleek smooth black like the old Impala, and they clunk around with every load just as loud and proud as Baby’s engine. Once they settled here sixteen years ago, they had to get rid of her, sell her for scrap. It’s just too expensive to keep a car in the city. But Dean’s always loved that car, still remembers the way the leather smelled and the feel of asphalt underneath her rumbling, steady tires. Looking at the machines every morning under the buzz of fluorescent lights brings a tiny smile to his face every time.

The ‘mat was Dad’s too, before the old man kicked the bucket. At first he just worked there, sweeping up and pressing shirts, but it got left to him in the end. Dean could tell John liked having his own thing to care for other than whiskey and his kids. He tried to do right by the laundromat, keep it clean like it ought to be, because up until then he hadn’t done much right at all.

Anyway, every morning at six Dean unlocks the front, peering through the dark tunnel to the sidewalk. There’s a man who sits out there sometimes, waiting for Dean to open so he can wash his change of trousers in the sink against the back wall, across from the counter. His name’s Frank and he’s a little bit nuts (one of those conspiracy theorists who just up and quit his job because he thought he was being watched by the government), but they get along pretty well.

So Dean mans his little store, his unremarkable relic, and then he goes upstairs to his apartment with its chilled brick walls and bare floors. It’s business as usual, calming and routine.

Except, of course, until the punks show up.

He’s caught a few of the younger ones by the scruff of the neck tagging the front of the store. They never try to steal from him, they’re just sort of a nuisance. (Not like those skinheads, who smear actual shit on the walls and throw rocks at Dean’s window upstairs just because he’s a queer).

There’s about nine of them, as far as Dean can tell, who all rotate in and out. All with weird, obscure names like Gadreel and Hael and Balthazar. They bring in rumpled leather pants that have to be taken in every few months because they stretch around the thighs and hips (Dean thinks they’re too tight, but apparently they like them that way). He’s done the bottoms of business shoes before, good leather that’s like butter to nail back into place, but over the years he’s learned to not even blink when someone hands him a pair of ratty looking, duck taped, spike riddled platform boots with the plastic heel missing. He replaces a countless number of them.

Jesus, he used to be respectable. Now he’s the personal seamstress for KISS’s background dancers.

He’s handled vintage mohair sweaters knit on big needles so loosely that you can see all the way through them, needing a careful hand to soak and care for them when they’ve got coffee stains or chalk dust or paint on them. “Don’t fix any holes,” is the stringent rule. Never do too good a job. Dean hates that, hates that he’s not allowed to go in there and mend, fix. For Christ’s sake, he makes his living cleaning up other people’s messes. It makes him feel like his job is always half finished when he hands back something that’s clean, but ratty all the same. Don’t these kids have any respect for themselves?

Occasionally Dean finds guitar picks or lighters or condoms or Sharpies or switchblades lodged in pants pockets, and he stores them in labeled plastic bags with the washed garments, sure to return them to their rightful places.

There are seams and labels on the outside of jeans and shirts that make Dean shake his head. There are fragile sheer blouses and transparent plastic shirts (if you can even call them that) with nipple prints on the front, stretched to fit over accommodating breasts, and neon things with runny colors that need to be treated carefully, not run through the wash with everything else. There are jammed zippers and missing buttons and loose straps.

(There are also the things he doesn’t like to dwell on so much, the blood stains and tar smeared and splattered like a crime scene.)

He takes them all, ridiculous and flashy as they are, into the back of the store where he restores them to their former glory. He hands them back to their owners when they return for them, and they are always so grateful that he’s fixed them. The punks are _nice_ to Dean and they always pay, so he can’t fault them much for having weird taste in clothing. Whatever makes them happy, you know?

They travel in packs usually – for safety, Dean assumes. He’s not naïve enough to believe he’s not in the middle of a turf war – but one day a tall, scruffy looking guy about his age saunters in wearing a dirty tan coat cut just below his belt, frayed and blackened a little, denim patches across the shoulders providing anchor for some serious pointy spikes. He’s got a cigarette dangling from lazily from his lip, a blue tie slung carelessly over his unbuttoned white shirt, and his heavy combat boots make a hell of a racket when he walks in. He smiles when he sees Dean.

It’s Castiel, one of the leaders of the ragtag group of punk kids. He’s always been sort of quiet, the least offensive of them. Dean once caught him hunched over a flower growing out of a crack in the sidewalk outside when he was closing up one night. Watching the bees, he claimed.

Cas, as he’s come to be known, has a lot of piercings and big chunky pieces in his ear lobes. His hair’s shaved down on one side, flicked lazily over in the other, a dark brown in the light. The edge is dyed bright blue, and Dean likes the way it makes his eyes stand out. He’s got such nice eyes.

“Hello, Dean,” he says.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replies, pushing himself off the counter behind the register and turning to face him. “How’s things,” he asks without really asking.

Castiel shrugs. “Oh, can’t complain. I have a question for you, though,” he says, clompclompclomping over to the register, flicking up his wrist to show off a white bundle in his hands.

Dean nods and beckons him over. Cas hands him the t-shirt and shoves his hands in the pockets of his red tartan bondage pants as Dean unfolds it. “I got some blue hair dye on the shoulders, I was wondering if you would be able to salvage it?” he asks.

Dean’s holding the shirt out in front of him, frozen, staring at the print instead of the stains he should be inspecting.

It should be for all intents and purposes a normal white t-shirt, but Cas has gone and screen-printed a photo of two cowboys with their cocks out right on the front, big and cartoony and shocking, and Dean finds he can’t make a sound.

“Sure,” he finally croaks. “I’ll… see what I can do.” He folds the shirt carefully. His hand shakes a little and he clears his throat.

Cas looks completely unaffected. “Thank you, it _is_ one of my favorites.”

Dean chokes out a nervous laugh and shoves the thing under the counter for later consideration (preferably when he’s alone; he can already feel how hot his face is). “No problem,” he assures him. “Come back Thursday.”

Cas salutes him and swaggers out, little bell dinging behind him.

Dean drops his head to the counter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reference for all you visual learners out there: [Winchester Laundromat Cleaners](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com/post/123995487538/reference-for-my-laundromat-verse-winchester) :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some punk!Anna.

Not all the girls are like Hael. They’re not all sweet and fresh faced and young, party animals with big appetites and bright eyes.

Some are like Anna Milton, who frankly scares the shit out of Dean.

She’s a rebel among the rebels, he’s figured out. She isn’t very vocal, like Castiel isn’t, but she’s always lurking in the back of the store while the others make small talk, watching the door like a caged animal. Her hair is fiery red without even dyeing it, and she’s got a temper to match. Her eyes are not wide; they’re big but they’re icy. Her teeth are sharp and her tongue is sharper. She is lovely, and she despises it.

Her parents were hippies. She went to art school. She keeps her birth name instead of changing it to something like ‘Anael’ just to be edgy. She comes in gaunt and spotty with flat hair and while it took a while for her to warm up to him, Dean and Anna are tentative friends. She’s got guts. He likes that.

She swings a wooden bat in her hands as she passes in front of the store some days, blocky white wings stitched onto the back of a large denim jacket. She’s an avenging angel, a righteous warrior of free will against oppression from the skinhead scum that live down the road.

What must it be like, to be unafraid and proud of your body, resistant to the insistence that it is shameful, free and confident in who you are and the skin you’re in only to have it abused and ridiculed? Anna wears tights, t-shirts and studded belts, miniskirts, pink feminine boots with a tiny heel. She wears bruises around her eyes, scabs on her knuckles. So Dean’s always nice to her, not just because she probably doesn’t see enough kindness or because she’s a good customer, but because he’s scared shitless she’ll use that bat on _him_ one of these days if he so much as looks at her wrong.

You know, before he got to know Cas and Anna and the lot of them, Dean was actually more on the side of the skinheads. They're all working class people, some kids Dean had even gone to school with who let him copy their English homework. They wear honest, brown leather boots tougher than rawhide – same kind that Dean’s worn since he was eight years old – not the stylish kind that the punks wear, and thick, warm hunting jackets inherited from their fathers, bomber jackets inherited by their _fathers’_ fathers, jeans that aren’t slashed open. No, the skins’ jeans are always pristine, because they know it’s the only pair they’ve got, the only pair they can afford. He took the sweat stains out of their uniforms: auto parts venders and factories and store houses.

Dean admired them for a brief period of time because they reminded him of his dad, preferred them to the raucous, ridiculous punk kids with gay-as-shit kohl smeared around their eyes, until he found out that Zachariah was a flaming racist and kicked him out of his store. Now only the punks come in, because skins aren’t welcome here and it’s safe to do so, and the skins are still kind of bitter about it.

So Dean gets Anna. He gets why she’s so defensive. It’s a shitty neighborhood full of shitty people but the punks are stuck here for one reason or another, desperately clinging to the vestiges of their unique identities and persecuted for dressing how they want.

Anna makes a lot of her clothes herself, sewing machine and knitting needles and all, and Dean treats them like jewels. Anna gets her own machine. Anna gets special rose water fabric softener, because he ran out of lilac once during a busy week and Anna _smiled at him_ when Dean handed over her garment bag and the smell wafted over her face.

If it ever comes to violence in his back alley one day, he'd fight for her.

Hell, he'd fight for any one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short installment in which Castiel comes to collect.

Cas comes in to get his cowboy shirt. Dean spends the morning listening to manly shit like AC/DC and Styx so that when he comes in, Dean won’t blush like a freaking schoolgirl.

It’s just a couple of dicks, ok? Dean’s seen dicks before. He loves dick. Just some dicks on a t-shirt. Cool. _Great_.

Cas forgives him for the awkwardness as Dean rummages through his wash bag. He’s in his leather jacket today, not the trench coat, and he’s leaning on the counter with his chin in his hand.

"See? Good as new," Dean says, handing the shirt over the counter and choking a little bit.

Castiel grins. "Thank you, Dean. It looks fantastic."

 _I'll say_ , Dean barely keeps from muttering.

“You know,” Cas says, surprising Dean so badly that he nearly loses count of Cas's change, “I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for what you do,” he tells him.

Dean snorts. “Sure you do,” he says. “You just did.” It makes him happy that Cas is always so polite with him. Notices his effort.

Cas shakes his head. “No, I mean, what you’re _doing_.” Dean doesn’t get it, but his change is all counted out so he slides it over with Cas’s receipt, shaky smile in place. “You’re all set,” he says quietly, instead of trying to understand.

Cas sighs and pockets the money and the receipt. He takes a step back and his hands hang at his sides. Dean’s eyes are caught on the places where his black nail polish is chipped off. “Most of the time, it’s difficult to live here,” he confides, but Dean already figured that out a long time ago. “It’s dangerous, that’s why we stick together.” He licks his lips and his eyes soften.

“But when we see the laundromat sign, we breathe a little easier. We’re safe here. So thank you, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t really know what to say to something like that – he just runs a freaking dry cleaner – so he makes a little laughing sound and crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously.

Cas grins at him and waves as he steps back outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet/cute.

Castiel started coming into the laundromat seemingly randomly once upon a time, and has become a semi-permanent fixture ever since. When he first shows up, his gang of troublesome leatherheads in tow, Dean isn’t entirely sure he trusts him. He’s heavily pierced, tatted, smokes occasionally, and is always squinting and frowning at everybody. He’s scaring away the few customers Dean actually has.

Dean remembers vividly changing things with Castiel on a chilly night in September. Dean couldn't remember the date if you paid him, but September sounded about right. The pain from his father’s death was only just losing its sharp edge and he was getting into the swing of things on his own in the city, his little brother across the country at school. He didn’t really have a friend in the world.

It makes sense, then, that this is how it all goes down:

He’s taking the trash out to the dumpster in the back alley. He’s got a few bags worth of it because he’s lazy, and he leaves them in the back doorway so he doesn’t lock himself out. He takes two bags at a time and shoos away the stray cats at his feet. On his second trip, he notices somebody crouching in the alleyway.

He drops the trash bag in the dumpster, rattling empty bottles inside loud enough to startle whoever’s hiding out back here. When the figure doesn’t move, Dean sets his brow. “Hey,” he calls. He’s got a hand on the gun he keeps in his pants whenever he leaves the safety of his home.

The figure doesn’t appear to hear him, and Dean approaches slowly.

The guy has a black hoodie on so he blends in with the surrounding night, and he's holding a can of spray paint up to the brick wall of the building beside Dean. The quiet hiss of it is the only sound discernible in the dark, besides Dean’s echoing footsteps and maybe the faint buzzing of a Walkman in the guy’s pocket. A few more cans are lined up against the wall, plastic caps tossed all across the pavement. A few more poke out from a canvas bag at the guy's feet.

“Hey. Buddy,” Dean says again, gripping the person’s shoulder.

The figure spins around, holding down on the trigger of the paint, and gets some right on Dean’s shoulder suspiciously in the shape of a handprint. Wide, blue eyes stare back at him.

“Oh. Hello, Dean.”

The person he figures out to be Castiel does remove the tiny headphones from underneath his hood. They hang limp around his neck and he smiles apologetically at the soiled arm of Dean’s jacket. “Sorry about that. I can pay to have it cleaned.”

They are both silent and staring at each other as the stupidity of Castiel’s statement begins to seep in.

He clears his throat. “Um. I would appreciate you not calling the cops,” Castiel says, eyes shiftier than before.

Dean purses his lips and observes Castiel’s current art project: it’s a [woman with a blue face](http://copaceticbrainbox.tumblr.com/post/134785066062/somewhere-deep-in-the-dark-a-howling-beast) and large wings by her ears, a strange symbol drawn in the red from Castiel’s hands on her forehead. It’s not that great, not as far as art goes. The proportion’s a little off and the paint is dripping awkwardly in some places but Dean likes his style well enough.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t,” Dean says, crossing his arms, because he’s curious.

Castiel just shrugs and the ring in his nose glints in the moonlight. “I really don’t want to go to jail.”

Dean feels the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips. He leans against the wall of the laundromat, facing Castiel’s painting. “Sounds like a good enough reason to me.”

Castiel smiles at him, small and secretive like he’s not sure it’s the right thing to do. He hesitantly raises the paint can again and when Dean doesn’t make another sound, he starts filling in the symbol a bit more.

“You couldn’t find an empty warehouse or a train car to deface, though? It had to be my neighborhood?” he asks.

Castiel shrugs and shakes the can absentmindedly as he inspects his work. “I’ve never painted here before. I don’t come to this part of town very often.”

Dean purses his lips. “Bullshit. I see you hanging around here all the time these days. You new to the area?” Dean asks. So far, this is the longest conversation he’s had to date with the mysterious derelict with blue hair.

Castiel’s shoulders tense a little – Dean watches it happen in slow motion, like a new layer of paint slowly being added to the brick. “Not technically. I've just. Never been here before."

Dean tilts his head a little and notices a streak of paint on Castiel's exposed forearms where he's rolled his sleeves up, a few dots of it in the shaggy hair that pokes out from underneath the hood, and - is that a blush on his cheeks? Dean blinks and Castiel speaks again before he has a chance to tease him about it.

"It’s in your best interest if we stick around anyway,” Castiel says. Dean frowns.

“What do you mean my best interest? I don’t need your charity, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Dean all but snarls. Just because he’s on his own now doesn’t mean he’s looking for handouts. He doesn’t need the punks’ business, sparse as it is. He gets by just fine.

Castiel whips his head around in full, bright blue eyes beaming out from under his hood. The red at his cheeks has receded. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. There’s no need to get defensive.”

He’s too calm, too measured. Dean feels like an asshole but like hell he’s gonna back down.

“Well, what then? Is _this_ part of it?” he asks, gesturing to Castiel’s canvas. “You think I’m just gonna let you guys walk all over me, pull shit like this every night? I’m not that easy. I'm not _scared_ of you.”

Castiel blinks and taps his fingers against the paint can. “I didn't think you were, and I'm not trying to take advantage of you.” His eyes dart skyward and he shrugs. “I've heard some people talk about this place. I only wanted to make sure they didn’t cause you any trouble,” he explains.

Dean snorts. “How noble of you.” When Castiel’s expression doesn’t change, he realizes he must be serious. “Who was it?” Dean asks, a little more somber.

Castiel’s lip twitches, a little menacing curl that casts a shadow up to his eye, and shakes his head. “Zach Adler. Maybe you know him – buzzed head, extremely full of himself?”

Dean’s eyes widen a little. Right, the fight he got into last month. That was one of the few he'd been sober for. “Yeah, I know him. I kicked his ass once, I could do it again,” Dean tells him.

Castiel shakes his head and turns back to the wall. He begins shading the woman’s lips, blue and pouty and glistening. “Not when his goons are with him. I don’t care how strong you are – they’d beat you with sheer number.”

Dean sighs, but has to concede the point. “Well, thanks, I guess. For keeping them out.”

Castiel shrugs, frowning intensely as he focuses on his painting. “Don’t worry about it. Anna thrives off adrenaline, and Michael likes to hit things.”

"What about you?"

Castiel twists and he's frowning at Dean, can of paint loose in his grip. "Me?"

Dean shrugs and leans more heavily against the wall. "Do you like fighting? Or would you rather be painting?" He shoves off the wall and steps a little closer. "What's your deal, Castiel?"

Castiel's eyes flick up and down Dean's face for a moment. Dean watches the sweep of his lashes (longer than he'd expected), the quick dart of his tongue to wet his lips. He finds himself unconsciously mirroring the movement.

But it looks like that's the only answer he's going to get. Castiel turns back to the wall to examine his painting more completely and he smiles, satisfied.

“I think that’s all I’ll get done for tonight,” he says quietly. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and toes the asphalt, combat boots scraping roughly against the slight divots. He tosses the paint can into the open canvas bag at his feet.

“I’m not trying to take advantage of your kindness, but… it really would be a shame to let this go unfinished,” he says, touching his cracked fingertips to the woman’s cheek.

"She's beautiful," Dean blurts. He's surprised to find that he means it.

Castiel smiles at him. "Thank you. I've grown sort of attached to her."

"How do you know her?"

He shrugs. "I saw her on the subway."

Dean, despite himself, smiles. “You can come back tomorrow if you want, Cas. Weather's supposed to be clear all week.”

Castiel blinks at him for a long while, and then Dean realizes that he’d just referred to him by a nickname he had no right to give. _Can’t you get decked for that kind of thing around here?_ He clears his throat and straightens up, feeling a blush work its way up his face. “Well, um. Anyway. See ya.”

Castiel is smiling. “I'll see you tomorrow, Dean.”

Dean hurries back to the dumpster and slams the back door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by [copaceticbrainbox's](http://www.copaceticbrainbox.tumblr.com) artwork for this chapter. I feel like Cas would like graffiti, but I don't think he'd be as good an artist as the original :)  
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The punks have some artwork that Dean can’t help admiring. It gets him into trouble.

They’ve all got tattoos.

Cas has some weird cryptography on his forearm, a host of others across his chest. Gadreel’s got devils on his neck, serpents down his back. Anna’s got some flowers on her shoulder, a tramp stamp of something suspiciously tiger shaped. Even Hael’s got some feathers behind her ear, stars on the inside of her wrist.

Dean kind of wants one.

He’s got scars, sure, plenty of them, but he doesn’t really think of that as art. Not like tattoos are. Nothing a lover would look at and say, “Oh wow, what’s the story behind that one?” Sometimes they do, but Dean doesn’t like them much, the puckered whiteness interruptive. He doesn’t like saying, “Oh, that? Well my dad threw a beer bottle at me once and it cracked against my bicep. But it’s alright – he’s dead now and he didn’t mean it anyway.”

He suddenly has a painful desire to get inked up. To cover those old scars.

He’s been living on his own for years now, has invented himself anew – to a certain degree. He deserves something to mark that occasion, doesn’t he?

He gets ‘Sammy’ across his left fist, one letter on each finger, lodged between the knuckles. He gets a symbol he remembers from a pendant his mother used to wear, a pentagram (the symbol of femininity) encompassed by a flaming sun, right over his heart. He doesn’t tell anyone, especially not Sam. His fingers itch every time he thinks about picking up the phone.

The punks come in, inevitably, carrying brown bags of snacks from the corner store. Gadreel carries a boom box radio they play the Sex Pistols from. Anna’s left her bat against the front wall by the door – she knows it makes Dean nervous. They all spill out over the folding tables down the center aisle, unnerving a pair of Mexican women folding in the corner.

Balthazar's got some suspicious stains on his favorite pair of jeans that need to be removed. He winks when he hands them over. Dean’s used to it, doesn’t flush, makes a joke, takes them easily from his grip. But when he reaches out his arms, Cas’s eyes go hard and Balthazar’s smile drops. He holds the pants out of Dean’s reach, looking down suspiciously at his hands.

Dean notices. “What?” he asks worriedly.

“Your hand,” Anna says, following the boys’ eyes to Dean’s bandaged knuckles. He can’t uncover the ink for a few days, the guy said, especially since he’s working around chemicals. The one on his chest needs air flow so not to get an infection under the gauze, so Dean’s unbuttoned his flannel a few inches. When he bends over, a little strip of the bandage is visible.

He knows what it looks like. Hospital gauze wrapped over his heart and hands.

Anna discreetly picks up her bat.

“If you’re being given trouble…” Balthazar lowers his voice as he speaks to Dean, English accent wilting.

Dean recoils. “Uh, no, it’s not what you think,” he scrambles. He glances back at Balthazar. The threatening offer comes as a shock. “But, uh, thank you.”

They all eye him warily. Cas’s eyes are narrowed to deathly slits, like he doesn’t believe him. He’s never seen him that angry before. It’s unsettling.  

“I just, I.” He clears his throat. This is weird to explain to the people he stole the idea from. Would they think it’s lame? A grown man just getting his first tattoo like a naïve sorority girl. He feels very uncool. “I got some tattoos this weekend. Need to keep them covered in here. From… chemicals,” he finishes lamely.

“It hurt?” Gabe asks, eyebrows up under his floppy hair.

Dean inspects his wrapped knuckles. “Like a bitch,” he confesses truthfully.

Gabe nudges Michael with his foot. “Mike cried when he got his hand done.”

“Gabe, you son of a bitch,” Michael bites out, cuffing him over the back of the head.

Dean laughs and chucks Balthazar’s jeans in his wash bag, carefully keeping his fingers away from the mess. Things are back to normal. Balthazar recounts some of the night that led to the stain, much to everyone’s distaste.

Dean can feel Castiel’s eyes on him the whole time, and the relief is plain on his face.

They’re getting ready to leave, and Castiel sidles up quickly along the counter. “Where’d you go?”

Dean frowns as he struggles to tug his stupid latex gloves on over the bandaging. “Huh?”

Cas gestures jerkily to his hostage fist. “For your tattoos. Where’d you have them done?”

Dean tells him, and Cas asks him a bunch of questions about aftercare and flaking – which, yeah, it was super gross and no he didn’t pick at it and yes he was stuck to his sheets the next morning – and nods before saying, “You should really only use alcohol-free lotion on them. Keri or Curel is best.”

Dean nods. What a weird little dude. “Thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome.”

He leaves with the rest of his friends, and Dean is still giggling to himself about fucking punk ass Castiel giving him recommendations about alcohol-free lotion brands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Punk music is actually great for doing laundry.

Even though his personal library is both vast and of impressive quality, Dean doesn’t play much music in the laundromat.

He’ll have the radio going in the back usually, but it gets too loud back there anyway to be able to really hear it. He listens to most of his music when he’s done with work, chilling upstairs cooking dinner or taking a shower.

The punks, of course, think that this is a tragedy.

Anna alone has at least 40 patches and pins of various bands and people that Dean’s never heard of stuck on the sleeves of her beloved jean jacket. Gabriel’s dating a musician. And Gadreel’s always got that freaking boom box with him.

No one’s ever complained about it being a disruption, so Dean’s never said anything to him about carrying it around with him into the store.

He just doesn’t really get it, he supposes. He’s heard Siouxsie, he’s heard the Pistols and the Ramones, those freaky Kennedy guys with the wavering voices, and even Dad liked the Clash. Some of it’s good, but most of it just seems obnoxious and rude and too loud.

Like, honestly, Johnny Rotten? Geez, talk about a bad attitude. He’s always yelling about something, isn’t he.

Dean says as much to Gads one day, and the punk leans against the counter with a patient breath, like he’s about to impart unto Dean some great wisdom. “Are we creatures of wrath or compassion?”

Dean frowns. “Depends on the guy, I’d say,” he replies neutrally.

Gadreel shakes his head. “But how could we be anything but wrathful when there are wars? Poverty? Greed? Hatred?” he asks, a just question that Dean doesn’t have an answer to. “We are predisposed to violence and anger,” Gadreel explains, straightening up, knocking the tape deck with his elbow and smiling. “It expresses us,” he explains.

Dean nods, but he doesn’t really understand. “You don’t have to be wrathful all the time,” he says.

Gadreel smiles and shakes his head. “Our music is not just full of rage, Dean. There are songs about love, about family, about wanting to belong,” he says. He presses down on the top of the deck, the stop button, and ejects the cassette tape. He hands it over to Dean excitedly. “Really listen sometime,” he instructs. “If you want,” he adds hastily, reasoning Dean might not actually _want_ his help.

But Dean takes the tape – an artifact of the culture, precious to them like leather is – and he promises to listen to it.

 

Punk music is actually _great_ for Dean.

Most of it is obnoxious and really odd – he still can’t quite get past the fact that most of these artists don’t even know how to play their instruments, just strum at them randomly – but the point of it is that it’s _loud_. Dean can actually hear it over the raucous churning of his washing machines. Always. Without fail. There aren’t words to learn, unless you really want to learn them, and Dean finds himself bobbing his head more than once the next time he pops the tape in.

Sure, an average Wednesday afternoon? No, he probably won’t reach for Gads’ mix tape. But there are some moments when punk music is cathartic, applicable.

Still… when no one’s around, when he’s winding down on his work – and he’s sure none of the punks are around to judge him for it:

_I stay out too late._

_Got nothing in my brain._

_That’s what people say-a-ay._

_Mm mm._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mistake was inevitable. Lucky for Dean, the punks are fans of DIY.

Dean fucks up.

Dean fucks up _badly._

He has a weird morning: he woke up late because he didn’t sleep well, damn those nightmares, his coffee machine is broken and the hot water’s all out in his apartment and – and he’s uncharacteristically grouchy when he gets into the shop. He sets the temp for each machine (86 degrees EXACTLY, or the solvent will get damaged), he loads his shit into the drums, and then he waits for the filters to do their thing. He's got about 220 pounds worth of orders to get through today, and he really isn't looking forward to it.

The thing about dry cleaning – a relationship that’s equal parts love and hate with Dean – is that not all stains are washed away in the initial wash cycle. He’s got to take things out sometimes, stain treat them with spotting solvents, wash them again separately. Steam jet, soaking for some indeterminable amount of time. And then there's the aftercare: the pressing and the steaming and the hanging and folding. It’s nice mechanical labor - scrubbing stuff, soaking things: the family business - but it takes a lot of mental math and special time management, stuff that Dean's truthfully never been the best at.

Balthazar’s pants are in such condition. He must have let the stain set or something, just getting around to doing his laundry this week. The white outline of the splotch is still showing faintly, and Dean groans because he was counting on this one to be sort of quick. Ms. Case dropped off a thick fur coat that needs processing, and it’s bound to take him most of the afternoon.

The unexpected _joy_ of cleaning up Balthazar’s come stain is almost too much for Dean to handle. That, combined with his bad morning, makes him a little absent-minded and a lot clumsy. He’s been forgetting things all morning, constantly having to do loads twice because he can’t remember how long he’s treated them and having to re-steam a few shirts because the crease is crooked.

In the end, it’s the bleach that gets him.

He pulls Balthazar’s pants from the washer in horror. Bleach. He’s unintentionally treated Balthazar’s black jeans with _bleach_.

As a result, the jeans are now splotched an aggressive yellow orange, random patches like a fungus all up and down the legs. The one on the ass pocket looks like Abe Lincoln a little bit. The come stain (gone) is now the _least_ of Balthazar’s problems.

"Oh, fuck me," he breathes, a soft wheeze like he's been kicked in the chest.

God, this has never really happened before. Dean’s a perfectionist, a little anal about it actually. He’s a neat freak, an obsessive. There are about a thousand different kinds of fabric - nylon, spandex, natural cottons, linen, silk, wool, leather, suede, furs - and he knows them all. He’s never really _ruined_ an article of clothing before. Christ, Balthazar’s gonna freak, these were his favorite black jeans, Anna’s gonna smash his face in with her bat –

Well, there’s nothing he can do now but finish washing them and sort out his funeral arrangements.

 

Balthazar comes in with Gabe, Anna, Cas, and Hael (who smiles shyly at him, wearing a shirt he’d cleaned and stitched for her under a mustard yellow cardigan), and Dean can swear he can hear Taps being played forlornly on the breeze.

“So, Cleaning Lady. Got my trousers?” Balthazar asks, leaning over the counter casually, quirking his eyebrows at Dean.

Dean swallows and says, “Yeah, uh, about that…”

He slides them over, folded but obviously still ruined, and rubs the back of his neck. Balthazar says nothing as he unfolds them. Dean’s rambling. “Dude, I’m so sorry, I can shell out for some new ones for you, I swear this doesn’t usually happen –”

“This is sick,” Balthazar says, thin lips twisting up into a grin. Dean’s been ‘off the scene’ for quite some time, but it sounded like a compliment.

Dean clamps his jaw shut. “Wha?” he blurts.

Balthazar twists the jeans around, holding them over his hips. “It’s bloody neat, actually. How’d you get it like that? I swear Winchester, you really go above and beyond. You have a mirror back there?”

Gabe is already clamoring for Balthazar’s attention, agreeing whole-heartedly that the pants are pretty freaking cool. “Acid wash,” he informs Dean, “is so retro. I love it.”

“Could you do my jacket?” Anna asks, flicking her bright eyes from Balthazar’s pants to Dean’s face. She’s already taking it off. Dean’s never seen her without it on. She looks so much smaller. “I’ll pay you, of course.”

Dean literally can’t fucking believe this. He screws up this job and he’s being rewarded with _more_ money. His dad would have an aneurysm if he were here to see this. “I… guess?” he flounders.

“Cool,” she decides, hanging it over the lip of the counter. Her eyes say, _be careful with it._

Castiel doesn’t say a word, but he watches Dean with an affectionate smile and a soft brow, a look that seems too intimate to be public. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is a keeper of precious things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a little more Destiel in this one ;)  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!

Castiel dashes to the laundromat on a Sunday, frantic but trying not to look it.

Dean’s usually not even _open_ on Sundays, but he came in to sweep up the place, to get out of his cold apartment for a little bit. Before he knows it Cas is banging on the door with a mix of embarrassment and urgency, blue hair half-matted like he just woke up.

Dean’s stumped, but he lets the guy in.

“Hey, Cas,” he greets gently, like Cas scares easy.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas takes the time to say, a little breathy.

Dean frowns. “Dude, did you… run here?” he asks. He doesn’t know where any of the punks live, but running _anywhere_ at eight in the morning on a Sunday sounds like sacrilege. It’s the day of rest, for God’s sake.

Cas waves a hand. “I’m sorry, I know you’re not usually open today. I just…” he sighs, his shoulders slump. He looks defeated. “I’m looking for a ring. Small, silver, little blue stone inset? Has anyone turned anything in or perhaps –”

Dean holds up one of his labeled plastic bags, clipped to the bottom of the garment bag containing Castiel’s leather jacket. The other guy goes silent as Dean holds it out to him. “You left it in your pocket.”

Cas’s expression transforms, a look of pure wonderment and relief and bliss that Dean feels he’s unworthy of. He hops right over the counter, settling way closer to Dean than he ever has before, and tugs his head down into a long, shallow kiss.

Dean’s brain spins out of control for a moment as Castiel’s thumbs run across his cheeks. He tastes like spearmint, the faint aftertaste of cigarettes. Then he’s pulled back, lips smacking, grinning at him. “Thank you, Dean,” he breathes into the space between them, and snatches the plastic bag from his limp grip.

“Uh huh,” Dean thinks he mumbles.

Cas ducks his head as he hops back over the counter, and Dean’s astounded by the ruddy blush coloring his face. “I’ll see you later,” Cas says. “Thanks again.”

“Sure,” Dean says. He blinks.

Castiel hesitates for a second in the doorway, like he’s hoping Dean would say something else – _ask him to_ stay _, you moron!_ his brain helpfully supplies – but he nods and pushes the door open before his mouth can sync up with his erratic heartbeat. “You, um, want this locked?” Cas asks uncomfortably, fidgety.

Afraid he messed up.

Dean shakes his head, waves a hand. “Nah, leave it,” he says, almost like a question. “I’ll get to it.”

Cas nods, and then he’s out the door.

Dean’s a fucking idiot.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean puts up with a lot of shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for... grossness? Discussion of STD.  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!

“I need your help,” the voice on the line hisses.

Dean’s rubbing his eyes – it’s four in the morning – and yawns loudly. “Who’s calling?” he mumbles, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, gripping his cell phone.

“Anna, it’s Anna,” she whisper-yells at him.

Dean’s a little more awake. “Hey,” he says. “You need help?” he asks incredulously. Why the hell would Anna be calling _Dean_ for help? And at this hour.

Anna pauses over the line. “Yeah, uh.” She laughs once. “Gosh, this is so embarrassing. I had to call when I knew everyone would be asleep.” Dean blinks hard, smacks his lips, tries his hardest to pay attention. “I… have crabs.”

Dean chokes a little on air. “Well go to the doctor, lady, not to me!”

Anna shushes him. “I need to know what to do with my clothes! They’re all over… everything,” she tells him, voice dropping in a pitiful whisper. “Do I soak them in vinegar or something?” she asks.

Dean hangs his head and shakes it mournfully. “Jesus, ok, here’s what you do.”

He walks her through it: wash _everything_. Sheets, clothes, towels. Hot water, _at least_ 130 degrees, and dry them _hot_. It might shrink some things, but you gotta kill the bugs. If you don’t have the resources to wash, store everything in sealed plastic bags. Give it 2 weeks and the bugs should be gone.

“I could take them for you if you really want, nuke ‘em with chemicals, but it really is a simple fix, Anna,” Dean promises, rubbing at his forehead. He’d really prefer not to be stuck with Anna’s creepy critters all over his shop and his hands. Just thinking about it makes him gag a little.

Anna exhales on the other end of the line. “I really owe you, Winchester.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Anna laughs quietly. “See you.”

“Yeah… wait. How did you get my phone number?”

“It’s in the phone book!” she chirps, before the line clicks dead.

Dean stares, befuddled, at the dark screen of his phone. He figures if Anna has any more trouble, she won’t hesitate to call.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s dirty laundry has emerged from the closet.

Everybody’s gotta do laundry. The fact that Dean owns a laundromat just makes his laundry day a little bit easier.

Since Cas confessed that he and his friends feel safe here, Dean has let them hang around when they feel like it. He doesn't really understand _why_ they voluntarily spend time around someone so unlike themselves, even with a guarantee of safety. There’s a minimart on the corner, and most evenings somebody brings back Icees and nachos or something and they all hang out on the tiled floor, on top of machines, on the edge of the counter, sharing food and laughs and stories.

“Oh man,” Gabriel would chuckle. “Cas, you remember that trip we took to Amsterdam? The sandwiches, man. The sandwiches from Amsterdam.”

Castiel nodded sagely. “Though I think you were more interested in the chocolate.”

“God bless the Dutch,” Gabe replied. He would turn to Dean and fill him in: We saw X there. Took the trains to follow Z on tour. Band Y. Band Q. This that and the other. International touring, when they could afford it. Most often they couldn’t, actually, and they ended up there anyway with greasy hair and wide smiles, only a change of pants in their drawstring bags and nowhere to stay. Relying on the kindness of strangers, the charity of the fortunate.

He can't totally relate, but Dean’s always loved traveling – has ever since he was a little kid in the back of the Impala – and he looks forward to the stories even if he’s never heard of any of the bands.

(Castiel confesses that he hasn’t even heard of most of them either, so maybe they have more in common than Dean thought. The acts are usually recommended by word of mouth, and he just shows up to whatever basement they’re rumored to be playing in.)

Tonight is another one of those nights when the crew’s all collected inside. Gads, Mike, and Hael have all gone down the street to get something to drink (nothing for Dean, thanks). Castiel, with a shrug insisting he isn’t thirsty, elects to stay with him.

Dean flushes happily as he waves his friends out the door, and then coughs into his hand. “Hey, do you mind if I get a load started?” he asks Cas, who’s perched like an owl atop a black washer.

Cas shakes his head and steps down, suddenly chagrined. _Dude, chill, I’ve got a hundred other machines I could use,_ Dean thinks. “No, go ahead,” Cas insists.

Dean slides over the counter like he would across the hood of a waxed car and picks up his pale grey laundry basket. Dean rigged up a chute system from his upstairs apartment down to the ‘mat a while back: open his kitchen cabinet and toss in the dirty clothes, bam, they end up down here in the conveniently placed basket. It saves him loads of time and spares him the pressure on his knees. The contractor who installed the chute, a Louisiana native by the name of Benny Lafitte, was real thoughtful. He and Dean sometimes go for a beer down the street if they have time during the week.

He carries the basket over to one of the machines and chats intermittently with Cas while he dishes out detergent and softener. He’s comfy in his laundry day hoodie (swiped from Sam) and some holey jeans he can’t respectably wear any other time, and conversation with Cas is easy. They have a lot in common, him and Cas. They like some of the same books – Vonnegut, Palahniuk, even Homer Dean confesses shyly – but they have a lot of differing opinions. Cas is weirdly literal but he also insists that Dean's scope is too small, whatever that means. There's never a dull moment talking to him.

They’re in the middle of an argument over Dennis DeYoung ( _"He's Mr. Roboto, bitch!" "Don't say that, it's derogatory"_ ) when Dean reaches over and chucks his black Iron Maiden t-shirt into the washing machine. He turns to grab something else from the basket only to find dangling from the corner of the basket, exposed and bright as day, the pair of pink satin panties he will never admit to owning.

_Oh Christ in heaven oh fuckfuckfuck please God don’t let him say anything_

Dean snatches them up as quickly as possible but it’s too late, Cas is avoiding eye contact and awkwardly pulling on the plugs in his ears. Dean grips the edge of the machine, stares down into the hypnotic swirl of cloudy water. The soap won’t judge him.

He blushes up to the tips of his ears.

“Uh,” he says eloquently, clearing his throat. “Those aren’t… mine,” he tries, but the lie is obvious even to his own ears.

They are his. A gift from an enthusiastic girlfriend at nineteen, who thought they’d look pretty on him. She wasn’t wrong.

Cas shrugs it off and lets Dean win the argument, but it feels forced, uncomfortable. _Shit, way to go, Winchester,_ Dean thinks morosely. _That’s what you get for – literally – airing your dirty underwear in front of the cool kids._

The other three come back bearing high-sodium-content gifts and Dean has never been so glad to see them in his entire life.

Castiel is quiet for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes the best of an annoying situation. He can actually be quite creative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe.  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!

While Dean loves his crappy old building, there are some obvious structural flaws.

Aside from the fact that it was built back in the fucking Stone Age, the ground’s uneven, moisture’s always getting in, and it’s just generally a mess. Things fall apart when they get old, like car engines and rock formations and Dean’s knees.

Naturally, there is one washing machine in the corner that goes all but bat shit crazy when someone puts a certain amount of clothing into it.

It shakes and rattles with the force of rinsing to its little heart’s content. Dean doesn’t think it’s a problem with the machine itself – the clothes still come out sparkling and nice smelling – it’s probably just because the floor slopes a little. Dean tries virtually everything to get the thing stable and quiet. He props the corner up on a 2 x 4, which it promptly rocks itself off of. He pushes it against the wall, and that only succeeds in shaking the filter pipe loose and putting a miniscule (says _Charlie_ , but what the hell does she know) crack in the paint, which Dean then has to paint over. Honestly, the stupid thing gives him all sorts of trouble.

But, it is our flaws that make us interesting, is it not – so Dean just reluctantly pulls the machine away from the wall and lets it keep on keeping on, rattling away.

He could just as easily move it, but there are actually some plus sides to having it where it is.

Cas comes in one day, and while it had originally been Dean’s goal to shove the washer back into line with the others, using the wall as leverage, he’s been draped over it – shoved between the black machine and the wall – for the better part of an hour.

“Ca-a-a-a-as you-u-u-u gotta-a-a-a-a try-y-y-y-y thi-i-i-i-i-is,” he declares. The vibrations from the machine spread all up Dean’s back like fire, stirring up his insides, and turn his voice to perpetual goo. He’s shaking all over, right down to the core of him, and it’s honestly the greatest fucking thing he’s ever experienced. He feels so peaceful. Slightly aroused, but mostly peaceful. It’s like a full body massage. Deep down in your organs.

You do you, little wobbly machine. Dean loves you at least.

Castiel side eyes the fuck out of him for a while, squinty and confused looking, then decides, “Alright,” and joins him against the washer. Their backs are both pressed to the thing, and Cas’s eyes go a little wider. “Who-a-a-a-a-a-a-a,” he rumbles.

Dean can’t help it, he bursts out laughing. The rumbling from the machine makes his laughter sound whiny and fantastic, and he actually starts to cry then, fat tears of joy and amusement rolling down his cheeks. Cas joins in, and then the both of them are giggling like children, giddy at the impromptu massage and the sheer ridiculousness of what it is they’re actually doing. “A-a-a-a-a-a-a,” Dean drones, opening his mouth and releasing a sound just to hear the vibrato he’s been suddenly gifted with.

Cas joins him in a toneless chorus, and they only last like four seconds before they’re laughing again.

The thought comes out of nowhere. _God, I wonder what it would feel like if I fucked Cas over this thing._

And then _shit_ , because that’s probably the most inappropriate thought that Dean has ever had in his entire life, what would his poor dead mother think of him. He’s such a savage. Guy kisses him one time and suddenly Dean can't control his impulses. He’s still in a good mood, though, so he just shakes the thought off and continues having fun being wedged between a vibrating washing-possibly-fucking machine, the wall, and someone he can probably refer to as his best friend. It’s fucking magical is what it is. He doesn’t even feel guilty anymore about thinking about Cas bending him over and putting all this glorious vibration to good use. He’s probably just high off endorphins.

When they finally push away from the wall they’re still stumbling around, shaking in their chests even though they’ve stopped physically moving. “Whoa,” Dean says, not sure if this sensation is pleasant, and feels off kilter when his voice is steady, not rocky like he feels like it should be.

Cas is swaying a little like he feels the same way Dean does. “That… was enjoyable,” he says slowly.

Dean can't quit grinning. "Man. It's been a long time since I've laughed that hard," he confesses.

There's a moment of quiet contemplation between the two of them, and Dean's face colors as what he's admitted begins to sink in. He presses a palm to his sternum, striving to calm his pounding heart.

Castiel tracks the motion and saves him with a frown and a furrowed brow. “How long is this going to last?” he asks, gesturing at his own chest.

Dean shakes his head and swears that he can hear his brains rattling around. “Dude, I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t do that anymore.”

“I won’t tell Gabriel if you don’t.”

“Good plan.”

They stare at each other for a little while, and it takes Dean longer than it should to figure out that maybe it’s Cas’s eyes on him that make him feel like he’s shaking, and not the effects of the washing machine.

God, he is in so much trouble.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An enlightening discovery about gender-coded clothing. (In which Cas is actually Boaz Priestly, because Misha admitted to owning a kilt.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for cross dressing? Except not?  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!

Cas has brought him some weird things over the years. Duct taped boots, spiked sweaters, shirts held together down the front with only a handful of safety pins… the list goes on.

(The cowboy cock t-shirt still holds a special place in Dean’s heart.)

But this honestly may be the weirdest thing that Castiel has ever brought him.

“What am I looking at here?” he murmurs, holding the thing up at eye level.

It appears to be some sort of skirt. Thick material, probably wool, dyed in a green and blue tartan. Maybe something that Anna would wear. It’s long, though, matronly almost. Too wide for Anna’s slender hips.

Cas glances up from grabbing some money out of his pocket and notices Dean’s confusion. “It’s a kilt,” he informs him.

“Right,” Dean says. Because he knows what a kilt is. “What’s it made of?”

“Wool,” Cas answers. _Knew it,_ he thinks.

“Who am I washing it for?” Dean asks, scribbling down the info on the order ticket.

Cas snorts like Dean is deliberately being obtuse. “Me, obviously,” Cas says, sliding his money over. He’s gotten into the habit of paying Dean up front, despite Dean’s protests, because he’s always certain Dean will do a good job and knows he has to pay his electric bill just like everybody else. “Do I need to sign for it?” he asks, confused by the question.

It doesn’t seem to occur to him that he’s asking Dean to clean his fucking skirt, and then weirdly Dean begins to think if Cas isn’t making a big deal about this, _Dean_ is the only one who’s being bothered by the oddness of this situation.

So he can man the fuck up, basically.

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, just wondering. You’ve never brought it in before.” He folds it and puts it in one of the bags under the counter. He’s determined to be cool about this.

He knows plenty of guys that wear dresses and stuff. They’re nice guys. He may not get it – he’s not _that_ kind of gay – but this feels different than the guys who strut in here in heels asking Dean to steam clean their rubber dresses and foam padding. It’s not a show, or a persona.

This is just… Cas in a skirt.

Cas smiles and ticks his head to the side. “It’s been in the back of my closet for some time.”

“Don’t wear it often?” Dean asks conversationally. His question does have a point. If the clothing’s not often worn, the fibers will be more resistant, stronger. He won’t have to be as gentle with it as some other things, which is good news for him.

Cas shrugs. “About as often as anything else, I suppose.”

And, ok, sure, why not, this does not surprise Dean at all. “Cool,” is all he says. But it’s not cool. He doesn’t understand why someone with presumably low hanging junk wants to walk around in a skirt all day.

Oh my god, does Cas wear underwear with this thing? He can’t ask that, can he? Oh my god. _Stop blushing, loser, Cas can read your mind._

While Dean is privately short circuiting, Cas is rambling about this rally he’s going to for bees’ rights or some fucking thing, and Dean nods like he’s paying attention because he’s a damn good friend and he’s not gonna be freaked out by the fact that his friend wears girl’s stuff.

 

It freaks Dean out considerably.

Not because it’s gross or anything intolerant like that – he’s seen enough ignorance to know there is absolutely no worse thing out there, he can practically _hear_ his father’s voice on the issue – but because he doesn’t _understand_ it.

He Googles “men in kilts” and thanks God above that Sam doesn’t live with him anymore, or he would have to have some seriously uncomfortable conversations with his brother about his questionable browser history.

Believe it or not, there is a Boston-based company that does window cleaning called “Men in Kilts,” and everybody wears kilts while they clean stuff. Dean is floored.

There is also a Buzzfeed article called [“40 Shirtless Guys in Kilts”](http://www.buzzfeed.com/melaniepoloff/40-shirtless-guys-in-kilts-dhod#.ojJjX2qPG) and the reason Dean clicks on it is purely out of academic interest.

It stops being ‘academic interest’ as soon as he sees guy number 1, chiseled and dark and tattooed and looking sexy as fuck in a black kilt with a slit up the side. And don’t even get him started on guy 23.

What the fuck, where has this entire world been hiding from him? Dean would almost feel betrayed if he could feel emotions other than “that’s kind of hot” and “?????”

These guys don’t look any less manly than someone in pants. Maybe it’s not the clothing that’s the problem, maybe it’s the fact that Dean’s just never seen a guy’s guy in a skirt before.

And whoa, that makes Dean kind of mad. Where’s the representation? Why do we even have “guy’s clothes” and “girl’s clothes” if everyone just looks sexy wearing everything? I mean, there’s nothing Dean loves more than a good-looking woman in some tight jeans, and you don’t hear people walking around calling pants “guy’s clothes,” at least not anymore. What a double standard.

He feels like conspiracy freak Frank Devereaux. The whole thing makes Dean more confused than he was before, but he’s kind of glad Cas opened his eyes a little. He could really learn a thing or two from the punks, you know – about freedom and expression and open mindedness.  They’re not so bad, honestly. Just… disarming.

When Dean gets out of the shower that night he secures his towel around his waist while he pulls out some sleep gear, and he’s standing in his bedroom holding a pair of flannel pants, towel slung low on his hips, thinking, _Hey, I’m kind of wearing a skirt right now, right?_

So he puts the pants back and he gives it a try. Everything feels weirder now that he’s thinking about it in this context. He’s walked around in towels all the time, but he’s never thought of it as clothing. It’s weird how some skirts are more appropriate than other skirts.

He walks around the apartment for a little bit, picking up things and putting them down again, only to have something to do. He tries sitting down at the table. He gets used to the feel of having only swishy material around him, and you know? It’s actually not bad.

He’d feel better with some underwear on, he’s not that free spirited, but he doesn’t see much wrong with Cas deciding to wear a kilt. He’s still the same weird, dorky little guy that goes off about a _bees’ rights rally_ at two o’clock on a Wednesday, with a strong jaw and sexy blue eyes.

 

He hands Cas’s kilt back with a smile and asks all about the rally like nothing is amiss, because exactly _nothing_ is amiss.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cleaning out the lint trays. Holiday installment?

Once again, Dean is alone on a holiday.

With Sam across the country at Stanford enjoying his paid internship over the summer, Dean figures he’s going to be spending The Fourth by his lonesome on the couch, watching _Live Free or Die Hard_ because that’s what America stands for and eating a cheeseburger he made on the stove. He’ll put in a few hours at the ‘mat, and then he’ll start grilling. He’s actually kind of looking forward to the quiet afternoon in his kitchen, and hopes not too many people will show up downstairs. Most of his customers had their tablecloths and their red, white, and blue washed earlier in the week in preparation for the holiday; he’s positive the place is going to be mostly deserted.

He flicks the lock on the front door, grabs the broom from the corner, and sweeps the dust from the grooves between the tiles. He tunes the radio to the country station, because it’s just so wholesome. He daydreams about the apple pie at the diner down the street while he folds the satin and bags suits for after the holiday. He kills a few more hours wiping down all the machines.

He’s making his rounds at all of the dryer filters when the little bell over the door tinkles. Dean twists a little where he’s bent over a machine so he can see who it is. He’s got dust and somebody else’s hair stuck to the front of his shirt and his fingers smell like burnt cloth. “Hey, Cas,” he says anyway. He does a quick double take, and smiles a little to himself. “Nice shirt,” he says.

Cas is wearing a t-shirt that’s had its sleeves shredded off and has the Dead Kennedys 'Bedtime for Democracy' album cover on it, featuring a giant Statue of Liberty with laser beams for eyes. Perfect.

Cas looks down at the shirt like he’s only just noticing it himself. “Yes, I thought it was… festive.”

Dean chuckles a little and wads up the lint in his hands. “Well, you’re half-right, I guess.”

“I love Independence Day. It’s such an important occasion, don’t you think? Very libertarian. What are you doing?” Cas rambles, squinting at the compacted filth Dean’s rubbing between his fingers. He glances down at it like he forgot he’d been holding it in the first place.

“Ah, just cleaning out the lint trays,” he explains. “‘F you let ‘em clog up, could catch fire,” he explains, moving towards the trashcan.

Cas can’t possibly know why Dean’s so obsessed with keeping the filters clean and avoiding any sort of house fire. He doesn’t know what happened when he was four years old. He chucks the hazardous stuff in the trash.

But Castiel hums in understanding anyway and joins Dean over by the counter. “What are you even doing here, man? Shouldn’t you be home with your family?” he asks.

Cas shrugs. “I was just wondering how you were spending the holiday.”

Dean can hear it, the little trace of pity in Cas’s voice. Like that one time Charlie told him she was concerned he didn’t have any friends. That's Dean: all alone, always alone.

“Well not doin' much, clearly,” he says, making a grand gesture to the store at large, smiling tightly.

Cas’s eyes go wide. “You’re really not doing anything? You seem like a… potato salad and swim trunks sort of guy,” Cas explains, getting progressively redder as he goes on. He ducks his head a little. “I should go anyway, you probably don’t need me hanging around,” he says, backing up already.

Dean shakes his head. “I mean it, Cas, I’m really not celebrating. I was thinking about just heading to bed after this,” he finds himself saying.

Cas turns indignant – Dean can tell he’s on the warpath by the set of his mouth. “Dean, it’s the fourth of July!”

“So?”

Cas gets that pissy look in his eye that makes him look like a child. “So,” he states emphatically, “It’s your patriotic duty to observe the day.”

“I put the flag up outside,” Dean defends.

Cas rolls his eyes. “Oh, the bare minimum, very nice. You’re not even wearing any red or white.”

Dean glances down at himself – gray Henley with the sleeves pushed up, jeans. “I got the blue,” he tells him. He doesn’t know why he’s arguing.

“Denim doesn’t count.”

Dean chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. “Well I didn’t exactly stock up on sparklers this year, Cas.”

Cas’s eyes flick to the trashcan. He points. “That looks flammable enough.”

 

They’re standing out in the back alley behind the laundromat, and Dean thinks that this is the worst idea Castiel has ever had.

“Cas, this is stupid. And probably really unsafe.”

“Don’t be a communist,” Cas chides, pulling apart the lint balls gently, fluffing them. He takes a lighter out of his back pocket and flicks it under the ball of lint he’d snuck out of Dean’s trash. “Happy Fourth,” he says, as the thing catches.

He tosses it up into the air, and it drops to the ground very anticlimactically, smoldering on the asphalt. Dean and Cas both watch until it burns out (it does so pathetically quickly).

“Wow,” Dean says. “That was just sad.”

Cas sneers. “Shut up.”

He shoves Dean’s shoulder with a little laugh and takes more lint from Dean’s hands. “I bet smaller pieces would work better.”

“You’re going to burn yourself.”

“Well fine, you do one.”

“Alright, fine!”

And that is the moment Cas tricks him into lighting lint fireworks on the fourth of July behind his father’s laundromat.

So they set a few more off and peg them at each other – they’re only embers, no one gets burned too badly – though Cas has an ash smudge on his neck that looks too much like a hickey – and then Cas calls Gabriel to bring over some hot dogs and burgers, which they plan to roast over the flames of burning lint. “Mm, that’ll give ‘em a nice smoky flavor,” Dean purrs at him.

Cas laughs so his nose wrinkles and tucks his phone back into his pocket. “This is how the settlers used to live, Dean. Roasting processed meat over burning lint.”

“I can’t believe you.”

Gabriel shows up just as the sun’s going down, carrying packs of dogs and buns and generally happy to be there, and he’s roped Mikey and Gads and a few other people Dean’s not sure he recognizes along with him. They light the rest of the lint on fire in the shelter of an abandoned hubcap leaning against the adjacent wall and they all scramble to cook something before it burns out. 

The meat is still cold in the middle, but Gabe also brought good beer with him so nobody’s sober or complaining.

They’re telling stories around the dryer lint campfire, splitting packs of Pop Rocks between the lot of them, reclining in chairs Dean’s dragged out from the store – plus one step ladder – and perching on dumpster lids. He and Cas are sharing a chair, and he’s got most of the guy in his lap. Mike and Nick are chucking marshmallows they were meant to be roasting at each other, Dean’s cracking up at something Daniel has just said, and Cas is flicking his lighter absentmindedly while he listens to Gads talk about political history in the spirit of the season. At one point in the evening, a dark-skinned goddess of a woman named Kali drags out her acoustic guitar and scratches out a growling rendition of the national anthem in the last flickering light of the lint fire, and everybody sings along poorly and enthusiastically. They can hear the booming of real fireworks somewhere further into the city. Everybody cheers even though all they can see is the cloud of smoke and sulfur rising over the rooftops. Cas's blue lady painted on the brick wall of the alley winks at them in the dying firelight.

He didn’t say anything to Cas, but he wasn’t so sure celebrating without Sam would make him happy. He still remembers the far off look in his little brother’s eyes as they shot roman candles up into the sky late at night so many years ago, sparks showering down on him with both fists extended towards the sky. He's pretty sure that if he looked in a mirror, he'd see the same drunken, giddy look reflected back at him.

By now the beer is warm, the sun is down, and Dean’s arm has wound around Castiel’s side. Cas’s hand is running lightly through the hair on the back of Dean's head like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

The fire goes out and the chill’s starting to set in, so everyone agrees it’s time to go home for the night. Gabe and co. help pack up the chairs and drag everything back into the shop while Cas and Kali stamp out the last embers of the fire. Dean’s wiping his forehead with the back of his hand when a warm palm settles against his side. “I had fun today,” Cas tells him, smiling softly.

Dean grins. “Yeah, me too.” _Thank him, you idiot. He didn’t have to spend all day with you._

Cas’s eyes are soft and wide, blue like the grand old flag.

“You have a good night, Captain America,” Dean says, turning to nudge the chairs and stepladder back into the supply closet and hide the embarrassingly large grin spreading across his face.

Cas snorts an incredulous chuckle and pats Dean’s shoulder. “I think I’m more akin to Bucky. Eyeliner,” he explains, walking away.

Dean stands and stares after him, and Cas waves a hand over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow!”

Dean shakes his head, and the smile doesn’t fade. “Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AT LAST.

Not just because Dean fucks guys but because he works in a freaking _laundromat_ , cleaning shit with sweet smelling soap all day…

Yeah, he gets his fair share of harassment.

He uses a fabric softener called _Snuggle_. The mascot is a fluffy teddy bear. Jesus, he’d be mystified if somebody _didn’t_ say something.

It made him really uncomfortable at first. Still does, sometimes. Get a real man’s job. Laundry? Oh, how cute. Tell me, Dean, what are your opinions on lavender versus vanilla? No wonder you’re so pretty, you spend your day doing girly shit like that. Dude, that’s girl stuff. It’s messed with you, bro. That’s gay. Gay. Gay. Gaaaaaaaaaay.

He always laughs it off, shrugs, hands over their freshly washed suits they wear for their _real_ jobs, man jobs, like brokering and whatever with a cheery smile.

The punks never make fun of him for the ‘mat. Dean feels as safe as they do in here. And he’s got it on good faith that if anyone gives him shit about this kind of stuff, Anna’s got a bat ready. Gabe is pretty scrappy in a pinch. Michael can be downright scary.

They don’t make fun of him. They tease him, but it’s not mean.

Castiel is the fucking worst.

“Dean. There is an ish- _shoe_ I’d like to a- _dress,_ ” he says, grinning over the counter.

Dean rolls his eyes, wiping his hands on a rag. “What’s on your mind, Cas?” He pauses, and then decides, _yeah what the hell, be immature._ “Don’t _skirt_ around the problem.” He smirks.

Cas narrows his eyes at him. A challenge? Dean grins wider. “Aw, don’t be like that, Cas. Frowning doesn’t _suit_ you.”

Cas purses his lips in thought. “This is bull _shirt,_ ” he declares at last.

Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Ok, ok. Let’s call it a _tie._ ”

Cas straightens a little and his eyes shine. “Oh, so you _fold_?”

Dean scoffs and crosses his arms, wracks his brain. “It _seams_ that way, doesn’t it? But I really just want you to put a _sock_ in it.”

If they don’t stop with the punning, Dean will end up making a real fool of himself. And he’s pretty sure he’ll lose their little game, which is totally unacceptable.

“Oh, Dean. You’re _sew_ hilarious.” Cas is smiling at him, like he means it even though he’s making fun of him.

Dean nods once. “Thanks, Cas. I think funny’s just in my _jeans_.” He chuckles a little at himself. “You know, I think I’ve got a few more up my _sleeve._ Puns are never _old hat_.”

Cas doesn’t move from his spot, and his smile doesn’t dim in the slightest. “Shut up, Dean.”

Dean leans forward victoriously. “Ha! Giving up? Knew you couldn’t –”

Cas silences him with a hard press of his lips, the light scrape of his teeth. Dean’s eyes slip shut and he goes all gooey in Cas’s grip. He may have messed up the first time, but he’s ready for it now. He's been too patient for too long, unsure of how to move forward from the valuable, tender friendship they've already cultivated over the last few months. 

Cas pulls back for a quick second to let them breathe – they’re panting – and continues pressing quick kisses to the bolt of Dean’s jaw. “Is this ok?” Cas asks.

The counter is digging into Dean’s gut and he’s breathless. He thinks he might be seeing stars. “ _God,_ yes, Cas, yes,” he whispers, ducking down and licking into his friend’s mouth.

Cas vaults over the counter without another word and presses Dean back against it. With a nervous anticipatory smile, Dean bunches Cas’s blue tie in his fist and drags him in for a sweet, long kiss. He rolls his hips up a little, and muffles the sound Cas makes with his tongue.

Cas’s hands ghost down Dean’s sides only to stop at his bucking hips, and they back up for another breath. “Had to stop the puns,” Cas explains, voice rough. “They were just _spinning_ out of control.” He kisses the tip of Dean’s nose.

With a sigh that’s half exasperated and half aroused, Dean replies, “I tip my hat to you.”

It’s a good thing Dean’s a pro at getting stains out of a variety of fabrics. That particular skill set comes in handy later.

 

“Dean, I _glove_ you.”

“Aw, come on, Cas… _Coat_ it out.”

“…”

“Oh, I _glove_ you too, you moron.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About time! Here’s some cute coupley Destiel in the laundromat.

Dean twists the dial at the top of the machine and points at it sternly, staring at Cas. “I have to take that blouse out in _exactly_ seventeen minutes to check if that stain is coming out. If I don’t check it, I may miss out on valuable treatment time. Capisce?”

Cas nods indulgingly. “Yeah, I capisce.”

Dean nods, satisfied, and takes a few steps towards the front of the store. He slows when he passes Cas’s lounging spot against the industrial tumble dryer on the other side of the rotating garment rack and holds out his hand expectantly. Cas doesn’t see him – he’s preoccupied counting ceiling tiles or something. The novelty of the business end of the laundromat has yet to wear off since Dean took him back here the first time. Which is mystifying, truthfully, because Dean had always considered it too cramped back here, in between the presses and the rack and the sewing table and everything else.

He flexes his fingers to grab his attention. “Hello, earth to Castiel,” he grumbles.

Cas snaps his head down and blinks at him. “Hm?”

Dean rolls his eyes and shifts his weight onto his other hip. “Hold my hand, loser.”

Cas blinks down at his hand like he hadn’t even seen it – which Dean doesn’t put out of the realm of possibility – and smiles as he slips his fingers between Dean’s.

“What were you even looking at?” he asks, swinging their joined hands between them and covering his blush by staring down at the tiled floor. Now that he’s looking at it, it could probably use a good, thorough grout cleaning. He makes a mental note about it.

Cas shrugs. “Just wondering if that rack could hold an adult,” he says.

Dean chuckles. “Sam and I used to hang from those things all day. Drove my dad MENTAL. It’s been a while since I’ve climbed up there,” he confesses.

Cas grins and drags Dean over the counter with him, swinging his legs around and sliding down to the floor, back against the laminate grain. “You never answered my question last night. So club soda really doesn’t help remove stains?”

Dean joins him on the floor and rolls his eyes. “If club soda removed stains as well as the other stuff did, I’d fill my machines with club soda,” he says. “I have no idea who started that rumor.”

Cas nods, considering. “So I should _always_ bring things here.”

Dean shakes his head. “Well, you _can_ , but believe it or not those ‘dry clean only’ labels are total BS,” he admits.

Cas rounds on him with big, wide eyes. “What do you mean?” he asks, like he’s been cheated. “You can’t just _wash_ cashmere, can you?”

Dean spares him an incredulous look. “Ok, first, since when do you own _anything_ cashmere –”

“My aunt Hester gave me a very nice sweater for Christmas once. I rarely wear it for fear of ruining it.”

“That’s completely against the POINT of a sweater, Cas, you’re SUPPOSED to wear it, not just look at –” Dean waves a hand to keep himself from getting distracted. “Second,” he stresses, “you actually CAN wash cashmere. You just shouldn’t dry it,” he tells Cas, who looks enchanted with this secret knowledge, this great wisdom of Dean’s. “Lay it flat to dry, like on top of the dryer instead. Just fine.”

Cas frowns. “Then why even make the labels in the first place?”

Dean shrugs and squeezes Cas’s hand against his thigh. “Frank thinks it’s the cleaning industry’s way to scare people into actually _going_ to the dry cleaners. Like biological terrorism but in reverse, to help the economy.”

Castiel chuckles low in his throat and knocks his knee against Dean’s. “Are there any other conspiracies I should be aware of?” he asks playfully, leaning close to Dean.

He can see the kiss coming from a mile away. “Well when you take clothes home, you’re actually not supposed to keep them in the garment bags,” he whispers, lowering his pitch to something vaguely sexy. “Humidity can get trapped in there.”

“Mmm, is that so,” Cas whispers back, kissing Dean slowly. “Talk dirty to me,” he teases, deadpan, in between another kiss. Dean can’t quite hold back the dirty chuckle that threatens to bubble forth, but Cas swallows it for himself.

If anyone had told Dean a year ago that he would be flirting with the punk kid over plastic bags, he'd have socked them right then and there.

They make out for a little longer, stopping only whenever someone new enters the store, which of course makes Dean jump away from Cas like a kid caught by his parents. Cas never seems bothered by it, except maybe for the fact that he and Dean have to stop kissing whenever there’s a customer. They usually give the pair of them the stink eye and then go about their business.

“Dean,” Cas whispers.

“Hm?” he asks, rubbing his thumb in abstract designs on the back of Castiel’s hand.

“It’s been seventeen minutes.” The remark is punctuated by a sweet peck to his temple.

Dean frowns. “What?”

“That woman’s blouse,” Cas explains. “You were meant to take it out in seventeen minutes. To check for stains,” he says gently.

Dean blinks and stands up, knees groaning, pulling Cas along with him. Jesus, his ass is numb from sitting on that hard floor. He is not as young as he used to be. “I totally forgot,” he tells him, staring at those blue eyes curiously. “You’ve really been watching the clock?”

Cas looks puzzled. “Didn’t you ask me to?”

Dean grins with insane fondness – and with closed lips so nothing slips past them without his permission –and slaps a hand down on Cas’s shoulder. “Don’t ever change,” he says seriously.

Cas’s eyes soften. And as he watches Dean squint up at a piece of peach fabric held over his head so the fluorescents shine through it, he decides not to mention that Dean has already started to change him for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something that Dean learned a long time ago is that it’s dangerous out there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied sexual assault.  
> 

It’s not all peachy clean in Winchester Laundromat Cleaners.

This is the bad side of the inner city. The poor, the angry, the bitter all share this space. Tensions run high more often than not.

(It’s no wonder that Dean’s able to fit in.)

There’s not much that’s clean down in the gutters. Dean’s embarked on a foolish quest to clean up as much as he can – at least what he’s entrusted with. He collects dirty things and returns them in such a condition that it’s easy to pretend that everything is normal.

Hael comes in one evening, long leather coat over her skinny little frame. Dean's eyes flick to the too-big cuffs; there's no mistaking that it isn't Hael's jacket she's wearing, but Castiel's.

Leather is like Letterman to the punks: everyone’s got their own and it’s a symbol of the clique. She’s one of the youngest, but she’s also Castiel’s sister. No one else but family would get to wear that jacket. She gets a certain amount of notoriety.

She walks with quick steps up to the counter, eyes shifty like she’s watching the shadows. Dean frowns down at her, asks, “What's up, kiddo?”

She fidgets, bites her lip – which is odd for Hael, she’s normally a chatter box, lively and a bit annoying – and slides a plastic grocery bag over the counter. Dean has to inspect the items before he takes them to the back, it’s his policy – he doesn’t ever take anything that’s clearly illegal in case the police come sniffing around, or anything that he’s unable to clean. He has to ask the owners what the stains are so he knows how to clean them best. He carefully shakes out the wadded clothing.

One of Hael’s t-shirts, the one with blue flowers around the neckline, is slashed open down the front and spattered rust red with blood. There is a pair of faded blue jeans, blood along the inseam, right in the seat.

Hael doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. He notices for the first time that she’s shivering.

His gaze softens and he packs the things away. “If you want them still, you can come back Wednesday,” he tells her.

She nods, and wipes self-consciously under her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispers. She leaves the store then, moving quickly and quietly so not to draw attention to herself again.

Dean looks down at the bundle in his hands, and has to really work to pry his fingers from the plastic. The city’s dangerous, especially for a young pretty girl like Hael. Dean hates it here.

He gives her clothes back for free.

 

Sometimes, the police come in.

He knows Henriksen, he’s one of the good ones. His partner, Walker, not so much. He waves his nightstick around like Anna waves her bat. Like he’s looking to scare people.

“Mornin’ boys,” Dean calls, tossing a pair of gloves in the trash bin. “What can I do for ya?” He’s not afraid of the cops, never has been. But he is always cooperative.

Victor doesn’t lean on the counter, just stands there trying to look professional. “Those punk kids hang out down here, don’t they?”

Dean nods and there’s a little phantom fear that grips his heart. “Sure, sometimes. Why?” he asks suspiciously. “They didn’t do anything, did they?”

Victor shrugs and Gordon sighs. “Kid got himself beat up, in the hospital pretty bad I hear. We just want to know if there’s anyone you think might have done it.”

“Which kid?” he asks darkly.

“Novak. Blue hair, about yea high,” Victor says, gesturing to somewhere around his eyes.

Dean’s heart drops into his stomach. He hadn’t recognized the last name, but that’s Cas for sure.

He rubs a hand over his face and Victor says sorry. Dean shakes his head and nods. “Raphael’s your guy,” he promises. The certainty in his voice doesn’t waver. The man has never given Cas anything but trouble; he hears the name thrown around all the time.

Victor nods and Gordon snorts. “You got any proof?” he asks.

Dean pauses for a moment and then digs through his racks. “What day was he admitted?” he calls back to the cops.

Victor calls back, “Monday.”

Dean digs around in his bins, hoping _please be here, please be here_ , and unearths a bloody sweater of Cas’s he brought in over the weekend. He brings it back in a sealed bag and hands it over. “That’s got Cas’s blood on it. Whoever beat him up will have left some too. Get Raph to hand over a sample,” he suggests.

Victor nods and smiles at him. “‘preciate it, Dean.”

They turn to leave, and Gordon sneers down at him, smiling like a shark. “We’ll tell the fag you said hello,” he says. It sounds patronizing, it sounds mean and dirty.

Dean doesn’t like it one bit, but he nods like he’s grateful, and the cops leave.

 

He leaves the counter to drag the overflowing wash bags under the counter over to the machines in the back, and by the time he comes back Gabriel is just finishing shaking the clothes from his collapsible hamper into one of Dean’s shiny black washers. He doesn’t seem to notice Dean yet, and Gabe slowly shuts the door, leans on top of it, and sighs, rubs his forehead. It’s the weariest, the most serious, he’s ever seen Gabriel look.

“What’s up, Gabe?” Dean calls, booming and trying for cheery.

Gabe raises his cheek in a conciliatory half-smile (Dean feels cheated – it’s nothing like his usual friendly leer) and doesn’t move his hands from his eyes. “Hey, Dean-o,” he greets. And at least he’s not so drained that he can’t muster up the determination to get on Dean’s nerves with the nicknames.

“Y’alright?” Dean asks quickly, aiming for nonchalance and missing it by a mile.

Gabe sighs heavily and finally takes his hand away. He just hangs his head a little.

“Sure,” he says, with some degree of his old brightness. He flashes a wink over at Dean and taps the washing machine with two fingers. “Mind watching this till I get back?” Gabe asks him.

Dean nods. “Sure, man.”

Gabriel inclines his head gratefully with a little salute added for effect. “Thanks. See you in a bit.”

He pushes open the door and he pauses like he wants to say something. “Dean,” he says slowly, like he’s still deciding whether or not this is a good idea.

Dean stands still, even though Gabriel’s back is to him.

Gabriel turns over his shoulder a little, but he keeps his eyes on the floor. “That was nice of you. To send those flowers for Cas.” Dean flushes – even though he doesn’t have a right to be embarrassed, he left a freaking card with his name on it – and Gabriel nods once to himself. “And thanks for helping that dick Raphael get what he deserved for picking on my little brother.”

Dean’s head snaps up. He hadn’t realized that Cas and Gabe were actually _related_. He thought they used the word “family” sort of symbolically, like Dean himself tended to.

“No probem,” he croaks. “He doin’ ok?”

Gabe nods and taps his fingers on the doorframe. “Better now. Doctor cleared him to go home tomorrow.”

Dean nods and turns away, thinking Gabriel is ready to leave, when his voice rings out again. "Dean."

"Yeah?" He turns. Gabe's got that serious look in his face again.

He tilts his head back a little, looking at Dean from the bottom of his eyes. "You're good for him."

With that, Gabriel darts out the door and doesn’t look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last update was a little rough. Here’s a fluffy little something from Castiel’s point of view!

Castiel really fucking likes Dean Winchester.

He’s got a mottled past and it shows on his face sometimes, but he’s also always got a joke or a smile for him when he comes in, and he never sneers or comments on the things he and his family bring in to have cleaned (the kilt didn’t even get a second look, just asked if it was cotton or wool). He takes them into his back room, mends them, and hands them back better than they’d been given. He doesn’t feel the need to fix _them_. He doesn’t question why Cas comes in with bruises sometimes, just gives him a sad soft look like it actually hurts him too and wraps his coat reverently in a garment bag.

He likes the way that Dean _smells._

Dean’s embarrassed about it sometimes, showering immediately after work – he says the steam from the shower clears out his sinuses, all those chemicals all day get him a little bit high, I gotta smell something other than lavender today, Cas, _pft yeah right_ – but the kicker is that Dean smells as much like soap _after_ the shower as he does _before_.

“Yeah but it’s Irish Spring, not Tide Ultra,” he insists, like there’s a difference.

It doesn’t matter to Cas. When he curls up behind him at night, he smells like clean sheets and bubble baths and homey, too, underneath it all. A broad expanse of tan skin, clean sweat and Old Spice and a little bit of sandalwood. It makes Cas want to squeeze him until his arms give out.

In the summertime, Castiel just about loses his shit. Working in the back room all day, around all those industrial dryers and steaming irons, Dean can’t get away with Henleys and flannels anymore. He’s usually in just a rock band t-shirt, and on one memorable occasion a plain black tank top. Cas is pretty sure he was drooling. Dean sweaty and all his skin, sweet smelling and glistening, on display? Jesus, he is not in the right profession.

Dean explains, face red with exertion, that he can’t put air conditioning in here because it blows money, tickets, dryer sheets, and _fumes_ around the store, which is bad for business. He’s got a fume hood, fans that suck up the harmful stuff – as per regulation – but it still gets freaking hot, especially when he’s hauling dozens of bags of clothing from end of the store to the other, doing heavy lifting. It’s practically criminal, and Dean may concede on the tank tops but he will never stop wearing jeans, even in the humidity. “Oh sweetheart, I don’t do shorts.”

Cas is pretty sure that he gained some business over that stretch of eight weeks. It’s not every day your personal laundry boy is hot as sin, instead of some wrinkled old lady that doesn’t even speak English. 

The winter brings heavy fur coats, thick comforters – Dean once stuffed a duvet cover in the washing machine that smelled so strongly of cat pee that he periodically had to stop to gag, and sneeze – which then of course prompted Cas to consider telling Dean about the stray cats he makes a point to look after in the back alley, _knowing full well_ that Dean is allergic and would chase them away otherwise. (He ended up deciding not to tell him.) Dean could rant all he wanted about Garth Fitzgerald and his cat pee blanket. He’d never be the wiser.

At the end of every work day Dean’s fingers are puckered and wrinkled. Cas likes tracing the folds when they’re holding hands – every inch of him is an expedition.

Dean sings to himself when they’re folding laundry together. He thinks Cas can’t hear it over the sound of the tumble dryer, but he can. Dean is off key at best whenever he belts out Bon Jovi in the shower, but when it’s just the two of them like this with the hum of machinery in the background, Dean’s voice is light and gentle and higher than Cas had thought it would be.

When Dean kisses him, runs his rough, dry hands up his sides, he does so with the same care that he handles the most delicate clothes. Like Castiel is made of silk, or something equally precious.

Yeah. There’s a lot to love about the man in the laundromat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel likes playing dress up. Dean likes it too.

“And you can’t take _any_ of this home?”

Dean rolls his eyes from where he’s standing on tiptoe to grab a new bottle of Downy from the shelf above the fire extinguisher. “No, Cas, nothing in the slush pile is free game.”

Ever since being introduced into the world of Dean’s exceedingly boring back room, Castiel has become obsessed with the trivial details. The object of his focus today happens to be the pile of unclaimed clothing Dean has stacked haphazardly in an old laundry basket in the corner.

There are lots of reasons that a piece of clothing won’t be claimed: someone never comes in to pick up their order (comforters are the most forgotten items), someone gets someone else’s clothes and brings them back only for the original owner to get frustrated with Dean’s business and never return (he’s not perfect, ok?), or an order number ticket never gets attached and the scrap of fabric remains anonymous. Dean chucks them all in the laundry basket and forgets about them, really. He grew up on thrifted clothing – big surprise: the Winchesters were poor – but he’s a grown adult now, with _money_. He buys his own. He doesn’t need to take other people’s stuff. There’s a little personal satisfaction in looking down at that pile and realizing there isn’t any need, any guilty twist of _stealstealsteal_ worming around in his head.

Plus, what if they come back for it someday? Dean can’t imagine somebody just giving up on something they own, no matter how trivial or how many other cardigans they may have.

Castiel, however, is a completely different story.

“This is a very nice sweater,” he rumbles, out of Dean’s sight.

Dean grunts as he finally grabs ahold of the bottle he was reaching for. “Don’t get attached, Cas. You can’t have any of them.” On this, Dean would remain firm.

Castiel shuffles into his view then, wearing a garishly bright blue knit sweater with snowflakes printed on it. It’s absolutely hideous, but Dean loves Cas in anything blue. “Well, trying them on isn’t against the rules, is it?” he teases, stretching his arms out. “It fits quite well.”

Dean grins a little at the sight. “Dude. That sweater is _fugly_.”

Cas frowns at him and tugs at the hem. “I think it’s nice,” he almost whines. “If you detest it so much, perhaps it would be happier in _my_ possession,” he says, only half kidding.

Dean shakes his head. “Sorry, buddy. Off limits.”

Cas shrugs. “Perhaps you just haven’t seen me in anything you’d be predisposed to letting me keep.”

Dean snorts as he walks over to one of the machines, armed with fabric softener. “Can’t imagine there’s anything in there that would make me change my mind.”

Except Cas takes that as a challenge. Because he’s a rebel. He’s made for breaking rules. He will find a way to get Dean to crack.

(He just really likes that snowflake sweater, and thinks it’s ridiculous that it should just sit here without any care for all this time.)

“If you don’t keep them,” Cas calls out, wriggling out of the sweater – _soon_ – “what do you do with them?”

Dean shrugs, appreciating that Cas raised his voice over the sound of the machine running. “Once the basket gets too full I just donate them.”

“Really?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. I mean, if no one wants ‘em…”

Cas rounds the corner again, this time in some gaudy high-rise yellow corduroy pants. He smacks his hands against his thighs and frowns, squinting. “I don’t think this is my color.”

Dean’s head is thrown back in laughter, and Cas decides that he needs to try something else.

Dean goes about counting the change in the register, sweeping up the back, little chores to keep himself busy in between speaking with customers. Cas surprises him with new and increasingly ridiculous outfits. The highlight so far has been the tutu he found at the bottom of the basket, but he certainly wasn’t complaining about the silk bathrobe Cas had dramatically swept over himself.

“Hey,” Dean calls, sifting through the rack for an order. “You remember that red ball gown I put up here like three days ago? Do you know where I put it?” It was not in the spot it should be.

“Here it is,” Cas says to his left. It’s a floor length dress, and obscures all parts of Castiel except for the toes of his boots and his crazy hair. Dean snatches the bag victoriously, thanking him, and then nearly chokes on his spit when he reveals the man standing before him.

Cas has put on one of the nicer pieces in Dean’s slush pile: a charcoal gray suit, his usual white shirt buttoned all the way up and tie wrapped tight in a neat knot. He didn’t even know Cas knew _how_ to tie a tie, hence the sloppy fashion he usually wore it. THIS Cas, with his hair all crazy with static cling and ruffled from pulling clothes on and off, polished and proper and his eyebrows raised expectantly in Dean’s direction, makes his mouth run dry (and his blood run south).

Dean chokes out a little noise and begs, “Stay right there,” before rushing back to the front as if in a trance, delivering the red gown back to its owner.

He comes back to the back room, and Cas is leaning against the giant column of washers, arms crossed in front of him, smiling softly. “It’s a bit tight across the chest,” he informs Dean.

Dean doesn’t waste any time; he grabs him fluidly by his hips and kisses him right there up against the washer. Cas is humming smugly into Dean’s mouth and they’re both tingling a little bit from the shaking of the machines, until a shrill buzz alerts Dean that his load is ready to be emptied.

(Oh, his load is ready to be emptied all right, but this is neither the time nor the place.)

Cas presses their foreheads together and Dean sighs. “You can keep the damn sweater.”

 

The next weekend, Dean takes Cas to the shelter where he donates the unclaimed clothes. As good as he looks in the suit, Dean informs Cas that suits are usually the first items to go, after coats in the winter, because they help people look professional and put together when looking for a job. A new suit can completely transform somebody.

Cas dresses down for the day: a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt he borrowed from Dean, his leather jacket and boots. He unloads boxes helpfully and speaks with the members of the shelter kindly. He is interested in their lives and he learns everyone’s name in a matter of minutes.

A man named Jimmy gets the suit.

Later, when they’re taking the bus back to the ‘mat, hand in hand, Cas takes a deep breath. “I was homeless too,” he tells Dean.

Dean snaps his head over to Cas, who’s looking peacefully out the window. He waits for him to continue, but when he realizes that Cas is done speaking about it, he just squeezes his hand. “Thanks for coming with me today,” Dean says.

It’s always especially hard to look at the alcoholics. And the kids.

Cas’s cheek lifts in a little smile. “Thank you for taking me.”

It’s the first time that Dean realizes he’s taken Castiel somewhere with him, like an actual date instead of just hanging out in his apartment or in the laundromat. He’s suddenly very ashamed of himself.

He presses a little kiss to Cas’s knuckles, blissfully bruise free this week, as the bus rolls closer to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a longish one! There’s mold, nuns, and Dean’s inevitable commitment freak out.

There are some chores that Dean actually likes doing. The dishes, the laundry, even small hardware jobs like plumbing. They make him feel manly and useful.

Scrubbing mold off of the wall tile does not make him feel manly, it just makes him feel gross. And nauseous.

 _When was the last time I even cleaned back there?_ he wonders to himself, staring warily at the column of washers. God, who knows what kind of primordial species could be lurking back there. Think of the dust. The grime. The germs.

Honestly, Dean is going to make himself sick just thinking about it.

But it had to be done. He had to clean behind the machines.

He'll get to it, promise.

He puts in a couple loads of laundry. _Aw, well, can’t clean them now, there’s a load going._ This fuels his “aw, shucks” self-pitying logic all day, until with horror it dawns on him that tonight, once everyone has gone home, there will be no more loads of laundry and no more excuse to not clean behind the machines. Oh.

Cas and the gang stop by shortly after this realization. Cas gives Dean a quick kiss on the cheek, the others pretend not to see since Cas threatened to beat them up if they talked about it, and hands him a paper bag. “I stopped at the deli. You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Dean breathes, truly grateful.

Cas sticks close to the counter, somewhat separated from the rest of the group, and clears his throat a couple of times. He glances around the room, rubs the back of his neck, shifts his weight while Dean eats. He’s nervous about something, and it’s putting Dean on edge.

“What’s wrong?” Dean mumbles past his sandwich, eying him suspiciously.

Cas waves a hand, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. “Nothing,” he says too quickly.

Dean puts down his sandwich and brushes his hands together. “Ok. Spill.”

Cas sighs. He gestures to the group of his friends over by the door. “Gabriel’s girlfriend is in a band. They just got back together and Gabe wants to go to the show tonight.” It is at this point that he risks a look at Dean. “I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come?”

Dean’s blindsided. Cas wants to take him to a punk thing? With, like, people. That he knows. And. Music. And, like. Other things. Wait, would there be drugs there? Dean is not cut out for this. He’s had no time to acclimate. He thought maybe he’d work his way up, like going to the Doc Martens store with him first and then like making out behind the train station and vandalizing some shit, not jumping feet first into the music scene. He’s too old for mosh pits.

“Me?” he squeaks.

He is mentally running through every possible worst-case scenario.

Cas laughs a little. “Yes, you.”

Dean fidgets. “I… had plans…” he tells him. _Oh, great, so NOW_ _the mold is important._ “Cas, you don’t actually want me to go to this, do you? I wouldn’t fit in there at all.”

Cas clenches his jaw briefly, but ticks his head to the side. “You fit in fine with us,” he says, eyes soft and pleading. “I don’t really want to go either, but I have to support Gabriel. It would be nice to have someone to talk to.”

 _But. Mold!_ “I don’t know, Cas.”

Cas nods and drops the subject. Hesitantly, Dean picks up his sandwich and starts eating again, to prevent him from opening his mouth and saying anything else on the subject.

It tastes like guilt.

 

Contrary to popular belief, Dean does have other customers besides the punks.

Julie Wilkinson, for example, who used to be a nun. She’s a nice lady, if slightly too traditional, and she’s taken a liking to Dean. She’s wary, however, of his friends.

“I just don’t understand them. You feel safe with them around your store?” she asks, fishing some money out of her purse to hand over to Dean.

Dean smirks. “Yes ma’am, I do, ” he assures her, thinking of Anna’s bat (he’s never actually seen it in action, and he hopes he’ll never have occasion to).

Ms. Wilkinson makes a face. “They’re just odd, I suppose. I’d be embarrassed to be seen with them,” she confesses. Her remark takes Dean a little off guard and she grabs the garment bag from him without noticing his blank expression. “Keep the change, dear!” is all she says by means of farewell, and Dean is left shell-shocked staring after her.

 _Is_ he embarrassed to be seen with Cas?

He scrubs away at the mold behind the washing machines and imagines that it is his prejudice. The grossness of the task doesn’t even faze him, not like it would otherwise, because he can’t stop thinking about what Ms. Wilkinson said. Sure, Cas is a little odd: he doesn’t understand social cues, he dresses kind of ~~funny~~ _different_ , he can sometimes be a little callous, but that’s what makes him himself. And Dean LIKES Cas! He likes how he can be considerate and how he puts up with Dean’s posturing bullshit because he really is just such a patient and well-meaning guy. He wears nail polish sometimes, big deal. Bobby used to get pedicures from that Vietnamese chick all the time and he’s the manliest guy Dean knows; what’s the difference?

Cas deserves better than to be hidden away behind racks of clothes. He deserves someone who’s going to stand by him.

Suddenly Dean’s staring a spotless wall and really regrets not going to the show tonight.

 

Cas comes in the next day and Dean hops over the counter to meet him on the floor. He looks tired, bags under his eyes and kind of drooping all over. Dean slides his arm around his middle and pulls him into a solid kiss, in front of all his friends, and says brightly, “Hey.”

Cas blinks up at him for a moment, and then smiles tentatively. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean lets go of him but sticks close, glued to Cas’s side and engaging with everyone else who’s arrived: Gabriel, Hael, Gads, Balthazar. Anna is notably absent. “How was the show?” he asked.

Gabriel launches into a tirade – apparently he and Kali are still fighting, but the show was great and he really can’t fault her for putting on a flawless performance. “And then she sang ‘You Didn’t Call’ and I wanted to _throttle_ her. Like, come on, already, cut me a break – that was ages ago. The nerve,” Gabe rants, going a little red in the face. Dean can tell he really likes her, probably more than he’s willing to admit, and thinks that this Kali must be one hell of a woman.

Cas keeps looking at him out of the corner of his eye and furrows his brow, like he’s confused about something.

Balthazar’s rounding out a story about how the bassist for Kali’s band literally pissed on the pedals for the following act, and Dean wipes a tear from his eye. “Oh, man. You guys gotta let me know when they’re doing another one. I am so there.”

Cas’s head snaps over and he grips his sleeve. “Dean, could I speak to you for a moment?” he mutters urgently. Dean waggles his eyebrows playfully at the group as he’s dragged away, but inside he’s heart’s pounding too hard. Was it rude of him to invite himself to the next show? Maybe Cas doesn’t want him there now.

Cas crowds him between the suspended garment bags in the back room and shakes his head. “I don’t understand you,” he grumbles, frustrated. “I invited you to the show yesterday, Dean, and you didn’t want to go. And now you’re – you’re doing _this_ and I'm...”

He pauses to rake a hand through his messy hair, but before Dean can get a word in edgewise he starts up again. “Is it because _I_ asked you? I’m sorry if I crossed some sort of line, but _you_ took me to the shelter first and I thought we - well, I know how you feel now and I’m not going to keep pressuring you to –”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, putting his hands on his chest. “Breathe.”

Obediently, Cas takes a deep breath through his nose. Dean can feel his chest rise and fall under his hands: powerful, solid.

He puts one of those hands on his shoulder. “I freaked out, ok? But I’m ok now and I want to do things with you. Thank you for asking me.”

Cas blinks. “Um. You’re welcome?”

Dean kisses the corner of Cas’s mouth and smiles shyly at him. “Next time, ok? On me.”

Cas beams. “It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s got some odd décor. It comes with the territory.

At first, Dean isn’t sure about bringing Cas back to the apartment. They only ever hang out during the daytime anyway. It’s not really an issue. There are ways to discreetly have some intimate time _in_ the laundromat – dude, Dean’s figured it out – but he hates feeling like he’s gonna get caught, and then he hates not being able to lay Cas down properly, get at _all_ of him, and then he _really_ hates it.

Nobody’s been in Dean’s apartment except Charlie, Sam, and Benny that one time (to install the laundry chute), and Charlie’s a different story. Sam grew up around there, so that doesn’t count.

There’s just a lot of weird, semi-embarrassing things in Dean’s apartment. His obsessive book collection, the antique katana Sam bought for him at a flea market one time – mounted on a stand in a place of honor, like a samurai weapon SHOULD BE, thank you – and…

Well, he’s got a lot of leftover coat hangers.

It happens, you know, when you run a dry cleaner’s.

Mostly plastic ones, the cheap ones he can order in bulk and yet never seems to have quite enough of. Occasionally he’ll find a free one lying around and just take it upstairs with him, give it a home. Really nice ones, the thick ones business owners take their fancy suits in, actually make great _towel racks_ , believe it or not. Screw them in upside down in the bathroom, next to the shower and hang shit from them. It’s really convenient, and when Dean varnishes and sands them they look kind of rustic. Antiquey. He likes them.

But he’s very aware that they’re _coat hangers._ That he stole from his customers.

He went so far as to cut some in half, stick them to an old board he found in the back alley, and mount the thing up as a coat rack on the back of his bedroom door – not in the front hallway, no no no. Nowhere anyone would see.

He bends the metal ones into plate stands to organize his kitchen cabinets. Easily done with a pair of good pliers. They’re not neat but they’re functional (Charlie thinks he should start selling them on Etsy). He hangs some up at strategic locations around the apartment – ahem, next to the toilet – to hold magazines and things that he’s constantly picking up and putting down. They hang on the doorknobs so he can chuck dishtowels over them and yank doors open when he’s got soap on his hands. There’s one in the kitchen where he puts the newspaper every morning while he eats breakfast. It keeps food off the paper, even if Dean has to tilt his head to try read upside down when he’s too impatient to wait until he’s finished eating. He saw this amazing chair on Pinterest that somebody did to look like the spinal column; it’s pretty amazing and Dean thinks it would make a kind of cool gift to Sam, or maybe he’d just keep it for himself as a statement piece.

It keeps him busy, these little shop projects. Talk about taking your work home with you.

The point is, he's incredibly dorky and more than a little afraid of what Cas will say about it. Then again, he is pretty into the whole DIY thing – the incident with Balthazar’s bleached jeans is proof enough. He goes back and forth about it.

Fuck it, he shouldn’t let his creepy coat hanger obsession get in the way of his… relationship.

He takes Cas up there one night, frantic in the dark, and he doesn’t even notice the hangers in their haste to get to the bedroom.

In the morning, Dean finds Cas in the kitchen, tilting his head to read the newspaper hanging upside down on the wire clothing hanger next to the toaster like nothing is out of the ordinary, and Dean falls just a little bit in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nostalgic.

One time when Dean was four years old he tripped in the driveway and skinned his knee. His little pair of jeans ripped open at the knee, and he cried when he saw the blood ooze out. Mary collected him up quickly in her arms and carried him inside, knowing full well that he’d probably stop crying by the time she set down on the lip of the counter.

“Let’s take a look,” she murmured sweetly to him. Dean sniffled and kicked his little leg out for inspection. It really didn’t look _that_ bad. A few pieces of gravel were wedged in between the angry red lines of the skid mark. It wasn’t even bleeding anymore. Mary kissed the top of his knee, where the jeans were still intact and Dean’s pudgy thigh just ended, and magically the pain began to disappear.

Mary kissed his little freckled cheek next, and instructed him to wait right there. She took a popsicle from the freezer, unwrapped it for him, and that was enough to placate him until she returned from the laundry room.

When she reappeared, she was carrying a little scrap of fabric Dean hadn’t seen before and a needle and thread. “Ok, Dean,” Mary cooed. “Leg up, please.”

Since Dean trusted his mother, he kicked his leg up again for her, popsicle melting all over his fist.

His mother bent over his injury and began sewing the piece of fabric – a thick swatch of flannel – to cover the hole in his jeans. “Mommy, they don’t match,” Dean said to her. He wasn’t angry per say, but he wasn’t sure why his mother’s solution to this problem would be a sloppy one. She always made sure he was wearing matching socks on the way to school in the mornings. It seemed to be a pretty important rule in the Winchester house.

She smiled up at him briefly before tying off the rest of the thread. “That’s ok, puddin’. You’re just gonna get them dirty again anyway,” she explained. She reached out and smoothed away the dried tear tracks on her son’s face, and nudge his hand up away from the counter. “Finish your popsicle,” she instructed. And Dean was never one to refuse his mama.

Dean doesn’t have a mama to sew up all the holes in his clothes, in his heart, in his life, but he’s got patches of things scattered all over the place just in case the need arrives. He _could_ theoretically sew that patch in the elbow of his favorite sweater shut with just some black thread – that would match the pattern just fine – but his sewing was never the best anyway. There was no one to teach him. So he just sticks some old denim there, or some leather, or one of those band patches that one of the punks insists on giving him (Hael thinks it will make him cooler, but she’s sorely mistaken; it just makes him look like a poser).

He puts patches on other people’s things too, when they ask. It gives them character, you know? You can look at one mismatched piece on a jacket and know that even though that thing was broken, it was loved too much to be let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean I-Am-A-Man Winchester, season 10 episode 11: “I’m not saying I have to have a Jacuzzi, I’m just saying I really like bubbles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!

It’s been a long night. Somehow Dean and Cas got caught up making out on top of the dryers instead of doing much real work in the back, and in his haste to get back to said making out Dean loaded too much soap into the washer and had to wash everything twice and then a sundress needed one more stain treatment and 320 pounds of clothes actually takes a long time to fold and also someone decided it would be a good idea to clip their toenails in the bathroom and it’s all been very trying if he’s being honest. People infuriate him.

He knows exactly what he needs after a long day like this one.

He grabs Cas’s hand – he’s already rubbing his eyes sleepily, smearing what little eye makeup he wears on the worst of days – and drags him upstairs towards the bathroom. He had already planned to stay the night anyway.

“Ok, come here,” Dean goads gently, moving Cas as easily as he folds a chiffon blouse. He goes willingly, even though the bathroom is kind of cold. When Dean unbuttons his shirt, little goose bumps pop up on Cas’s arms. He kisses the bolt of his jaw, unbuttons his pants. He leans closer, and Cas puffs out his lips a little expecting a kiss. Dean ducks his head, not even noticing, and Cas huffs a breath when Dean leaves him hanging in favor of turning on the bath taps. His claw footed bathtub fills up slowly. Dean leaves his hand under the spray for a moment to test the warmth. It’s a talent of his to find the perfect temperature, Castiel’s discovered.

Dean pulls back up and is promptly confused by Cas’s grumpy expression.

“Hey, you’re gonna like this, I promise,” he assures him, a little self-consciousness lacing into his platitude.

Cas relinquishes one tiny smile. “I’m sure,” he says. He’s unable to resist threading his own hint of teasing sarcasm in there. Truthfully, he is generally a fan of anything involving getting naked around Dean.

Dean smiles too, relieved, and finally pecks Cas on the lips. This time, he’s caught off guard by it, and Dean’s moving away too quickly. He opens cabinet under the sink and pulls out a little purple and plastic bottle. Dean shakes it once or twice and then tips it generously into the bathtub; bubbles sprout up instantly, fragrant and soft looking. Finally catching on, Cas hums happily and eagerly begins stripping Dean too.

Soon enough, they’re lying chest to back in the bathtub – just barely big enough for the two of them, even with their legs folded up – spreading their hands through the soap fluff and tipping warm water through their hair. Cas has his eyes closed and one hand dragging along the cool tile as Dean rubs a little shampoo through his hair. He sighs happily and rubs Dean’s left knee with his free hand. He smears a few bubbles there with his thumb.

He feels like he’s floating in a liquid meadow, with some sort of clean and strong river god holding tight to him. “This is nice,” he agrees at last.

Dean hums and dips to press a small sweet kiss to his exposed neck. “It’s like we’re sitting in a giant washing machine,” Cas slurs, totally blissed out and sleepy.

Dean chuckles quietly and trails just the tips of fingers up the inside of Castiel’s thigh under the water. “Sure, babe. Ready for the rinse cycle?”

Cas’s eyes are already closed, so the soap doesn’t sting when Dean rinses it out of his hair slowly. “You just left the laundromat to sit in another washing machine,” Cas observes, grinning drunkenly. “Your life is blessedly circular.”

Dean shrugs jerkily, like he does when he’s a little embarrassed about something. He mumbles, “I like bubbles.”

“I like _you_ ,” Castiel insists, dabbing Dean’s nose with soap. The water’s getting cold, but he doesn’t want to move.

Dean rubs his sudsy nose into Cas’s wet hair, and he sighs too. “Me too. Really like you.”

This reply is good enough for Cas. They lie there for a few minutes more, sloshing water back and forth just to watch it ripple – the bubbles are starting to fade into a watery foam – and Cas turns to catch Dean’s eye.

“Can we do this again tomorrow?”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are better left to air dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honestly shameless and I make no apologies  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!

Dean tries – unsuccessfully and for the third time – to button this pair of jeans.

He’s huffing already, frowning down at the little pudge of his tummy like it’s the source of all the grief in his life. The seam cuts sharply into his skin, leaves ribbed red lines under his belly button. He didn’t _think_ he was putting on more weight. He hasn’t changed his diet much at all, actually. Maybe it was the glow of being in a new relationship? Was he getting complacent? That tends to happen to people, doesn’t it? He’d have to start running around the block again.

God dammit, Dean _hates_ running.

You know, it’s not over till it’s over. He jerks one leg up harshly, ignoring the squeeze of denim around his thigh. He repeats the process with the other leg, and then does it again. He wiggles around a little bit, seats himself lower in the jeans. He does like two experimental squats and pulls up by the belt loops. It’s officially the most humiliating routine he’s ever gone through.

He hears a tiny little ripping noise, and he gives up.

He peels the jeans off, tosses them angrily into his closet, and pulls out a more worn pair that buttons easily around his stomach.

That’s the last time he puts any of his nice jeans through the dryer. They may smell nice, but they sure as hell won’t fit the same.

When he complains to Cas later and puts them back on to demonstrate, Cas's eyes widen and his mouth falls open a little.

Dean decides that he may have been too hasty about the dryer situation.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what couples do? Grocery shopping. You know what punk couples do? Topple the pre-existing economic pecking order and make powerful statements about general welfare… by going grocery shopping.

Cas goes with him to the supermarket.

There are of course the typical aisle feuds: “No, Cas, _no._ Put the Hamburger Helper back, I am not putting that shit in my kitchen.” “Dean, you’re completely being unreasonable - there are plenty of uses for it.” “Dean, skim milk is better for you." "That's not even real milk, Cas!" "Oh, so you won’t let me buy Hamburger Helper but you’ve got no qualms about aggravating your cholesterol levels with whole milk?”

But there’s also the sickeningly sweet process of selecting washing detergent.

Dean has a lot of _opinions._ Xtra doesn't suds up for shit so Dean always walks straight past it. Downy smells way too strong. Tide is a general favorite because the least amount of people tend to be allergic to it, and even though he prefers powder sometimes the jugs of liquid have the oil spill animals on them. Since he’s not fucking _heartless_ and he cares about animals, he picks that up whenever he can. He packs up a couple of boxes of powder Tide for his own use, some discounted Arm&Hammer dryer sheets even though they don't smell like much, and splurges on some nice fabric softener. Cas is constantly evaluating the process.

He stands there, in whatever get up he’s constructed that morning, and picks up each individual bottle on the shelf. “You know,” he begins slowly, not taking his eyes off the label of a bottle of Downy, “I’ve heard that some dry cleaning chemicals are cancerous.”

Dean bristles – he’s heard the same thing for years, but he’s not changing his ways, they’re all going to die anyway, it’s fucking _dry cleaning_ , you don’t get sick unless you’re a moron. Ever since that Georgetown study came out a few months ago he’s been getting nonstop complaints and questions about his cleaning routine. He feels violated.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, cautiously, tossing approximately a metric fuck ton of Bounce sheets into his cart.

He tries not to snap, knows that Cas is coming from a good place. He doesn’t like being told he’s doing wrong, or doing stupid. This is his business, ok, and he’s going to run it the way he always has.

Carefully, so carefully you’d think he was performing open-heart surgery, Castiel puts one bottle of Honest Company detergent into the cart. It’s a clear bottle, looks unassuming enough. Hopefully, Dean won’t consider it a personal attack. “I’d feel better if you used something harmless.”

Dean clenches his jaw, looks up at Cas’s worried expression, and reluctantly gathers up the heavy bottles of Tide in his arms. He’s grumbling to himself as he sticks them back on the shelf.

“Animals caught in the oil spill are going to pay for this, Cas,” Dean informs him, shoving Honest Company detergent into the cart in place of the missing Tide. It’s more expensive and he sneers. “I hope you can live with that.”

Cas grins at him in a way that makes him feel proud of himself, and Cas nods. “Some sacrifices must be made,” he says seriously. He pecks Dean on the cheek and nuzzles the side of his face for a second. “I’d rather have _you_ around than baby ducks.”

Dean sighs. “We’ll try it, alright? _Try._ If my shit doesn’t get clean I’m switching back to Tide.”

Cas nods seriously. “Yes, of course. Thank you for trying.”

Dean continues muttering to himself the whole way through the store, and it’s only once they get to the conveyor belt at check out that he realizes that Cas – that bastard – has shoved a box of Hamburger Helper into the pile while he wasn’t looking.

 

Ms. Wilkinson is nothing but smiles when he informs her they’ve switched to an all-natural detergent. She’s so pleased that Dean is taking a proactive interest in the health of his customers that she promises she’ll spread the word.

Unintentionally, Dean has become the crusader for all-natural dry cleaning, and the enemy of the perc-using traditionalists. That’s not to say he doesn’t still use the stuff too; he’s made a relatively small change and it has all been blown way out of proportion.

The local newspaper comes down and asks him about what he thinks about the risks of cancer, if Dean’s statement is the first step in a long line of protests. Dean frantically tries to explain that he’s just trying something new, something cleaner than clean, and that of course is the line they choose to put in the article.

Was this Cas’s goal all along? To convert Dean into some righteous revolutionary of the cleaning industry?

He sighs heavily and glares at the nearest Honest Company bottle.

Well if he backs down now, he’ll be forever remembered as a coward and a cancer-breeding jerk-off.

So Dean shells out for the natural detergent every week. It hurts his wallet a little, but it makes Cas happy and it screws the exploitative chemical companies, which Dean gets a sick little thrill out of.

Castiel is very proud of him, and hangs the article up on the fridge in Dean’s apartment to prove it. He leaves a sticky note beside it: “(I still feel bad for the ducks though.)” Dean snorts when he sees it, and feels something flare hot and adoring in his chest.

They make up for all this suddenly environmentally conscious behavior with the fact that Dean has to wash his sheets several times a week. Thank goodness, otherwise Sammy might start calling him a hypocrite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is here, and Dean is dressed for the occasion.

So Cas has been up to the apartment a few times now. He knows where Dean keeps his towels and which cabinet has the cups in it and sometimes even stays for breakfast in the morning. It’s new and weird and nice and scary, but Dean is… yeah. He’s good. With this. _Them_. Cool.

He wakes up one morning, sun peeking in through the bedroom window and with six feet of solid man pressed up against him, and smiles as he blinks himself awake. Dean kisses Cas’s bare shoulder, directly underneath some ancient symbol he really likes. His skin is cool to the touch, but his breathing’s slow and steady. Dean’s in no hurry to wake him.

This is good. This is nice. Dean likes waking up like this and he doesn’t feel so scared right now.

He rolls over to grab his phone on the nightstand so he can check the time. It’s 7:23 AM, but that’s not what has Dean’s attention.

**1 New Message**

**SAM: Hey! I’m in town.**

Dean is rolling out of his warm bed instantly, panic shooting hot in his veins. Good mood ruined. Fluffy feelings gone. “Cas! Hey!” he croaks, smacking the shoulder he’d just kissed. “Get up!”

“Hm? What? Dean?” Cas mumbles, twisting around in the sheets to face him. He’s got eyeliner smudged across his temple, sheet marks on his cheek, and a dry throat that somehow makes his voice even MORE smoky and attractive than usual. Dean wants so badly to go cuddle him some more but there is nO TIME.

Because Sam’s here.

“Hey, listen, man. Hate to do this but you gotta go, ok? Like, right now. Up,” he says, tugging at the corner of the sheet.

Cas groans and struggles to sit up. Finally succeeds and rubs his eyes. “I haven’t had any Rice Chex,” Cas grumbles around a yawn. He HATES being woken up early. His blue hair is sticking almost straight up.

Dean sighs because he is so conflicted right now. He and Cas sit in his kitchen and listen to NPR in their underwear while they eat cereal. They swap hand jobs in the shower. They do that now. It’s Dean’s favorite part of the whole damn week. Sam’s a dirty cockblock.

But Dean’s not… ready to share this yet. He’s pretty sure he’s well on his way to gooey, marshmallow love with Cas by now, but that’s for him to figure out first. Solo. He doesn’t want Sam to know until he’s sorted out. Until he’s sure Cas is going to stick around.

“I know, buddy, and I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

He bends down and grabs a plain black t-shirt off the floor and a pair of jeans from the dresser. They both smell clean, so that’s ok. He kisses Cas on the forehead. “Head down the fire escape while I’m in the shower so I don’t have to lock up after you,” Dean instructs.

He’s very aware that this is exactly what he’d tell a one-night stand who didn’t matter. Cas seems to notice too.

Cas huffs against Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t get to shower with you either?” he snarks.

Dean kisses his forehead again, wincing. “No time, baby. Gotta go meet Sam.”

Cas shoves Dean back with a hand to the middle of his chest and throws off the covers. “Fine, fine, I’m getting up,” he snaps. His jaw is kind of taut. There’s hurt and irritation in his sleep-blurry eyes.

Dean doesn’t have time to have this argument. He knows Cas isn’t a morning person and he doesn’t want to make this any worse than he already knows it is. “Fire escape,” Dean reminds him instead.

Cas waves a hand behind his head dismissively as he ducks under the bed, hunting down last night’s socks.

 

Dean’s sitting in Moseley’s Diner tapping his fingers on the laminate table, and his kid brother is sitting across from him shoving salad into his gaping maw. Despite the tiff with Cas this morning, he can’t quit smiling. Some warning would have been nice, but Dean’s ecstatic to see his brother.

“Can’t believe you still haven’t cut your hair. It’s getting ridiculous,” Dean taunts, smiling through the whole thing.

Sam rolls his eyes dramatically and makes a crack about Dean’s eating habits. Dean kicks him under the table.

Sam swallows and nods out the window. “Business ok?” he asks.

He had the option to stay and help Dean run the ‘mat, but when he got a four-year scholarship to Stanford his mind was sort of made up for him. And then of course there's law school, another four or five years away from him. Dean was sad to see him go, but he does stop by around tax season to help out so it’s not so bad. His delicate nose doesn’t agree with all the bleach.

Dean nods. “Yeah, we’re good,” he says cheerfully. “Place is holding together just fine.”

Sam nods, pleased. “Good. Have you done anything about the foundation?”

They talk shop for a little bit before Dean makes the mistake of saying, “So you ditched your hot California girlfriend to come see me last minute? I’m honored, Sammy, truly,” with his hand over his heart.

Sam laughs. “Yeah, she wanted to tag along but she’s got a big project for Human Anatomy she’s gotta finish up,” he says, stirring the croutons around.

“What’s her name again? Jenn?”

“Jess,” Sam answers, stars in his eyes. He finally just pushes all the croutons to the side of his bowl instead of playing with them. “Hey, what about you? You seeing anybody?” he asks, crunching into a huge, sopping piece of lettuce.

Dean fidgets uncomfortably and tries his hardest not to give anything away in his face. “Uh, I don’t really. Um… case work's probably kickin' your ass, right? Tell me about the firm.”

The deflection’s successful – Sam drops the subject and talks about himself for a while. Which is fine since Dean loves hearing all about Sam’s glamorous California life.

“You’ve gotta come visit some time. Christmas, maybe,” Sam says. “Jess makes, like, the best honey ham you’ve ever had in your _life_ ,” he brags.

Dean snorts. “We’ll see,” he says. He raps his knuckles on the table. “Gotta take a leak – order me another coffee if our waitress comes back,” he instructs. Sam nods and looks back at his plate of greens.

Dean finds that he has to tug his shirt down a little as he stands. “Fuckin’ dryer,” he mutters. Shrinks fuckin’ everything.

“Since when do you like the Misfits?” Sam laughs behind him.

Dean spins back around, tugging at the hem still. “The what?” he grunts.

He twists to the side and notices just the edge of the white decal on his back.

God dammit, it’s that creepy skull thing that Cas worships. He grabbed _Cas’s_ fucking shirt off the floor this morning.

“This city’s changed you, man,” Sam continues, shaking his head.

“Not my shirt!” Dean squawks, mortified he even just copped to that. It's obvious it's a man's shirt, despite being a little small on Dean. He holds out a hand as if to stop any of Sam's assumptions, freeze time so he can just go die in a hole somewhere in peace. “Ok, so, I’m seeing somebody. And it’s… it’s just –”

“Dude, ok, don’t worry. I don’t care. So long as you’re happy,” Sam says, shrugging.

Dean escapes to the bathroom as fast as fucking possible and splashes some cold water on his face to calm himself down. _Jig’s up, Winchester._ As he wipes the water away with a coarse paper towel, he turns his head into the shoulder of Cas’s shirt. He is embarrassed to say that he may have sniffed it a little.

He didn’t notice it wasn’t his shirt at first, because it smells just like his laundry detergent. He washes all of Cas’s clothes with his own. It’s oddly… reassuring. Ah shit, he really hopes Cas will forgive him for this morning, because. Well. Just because.

When he’s back at the table with Sam, his phone buzzes.

**1 New Message**

**CAS: [photo enclosed]**

Sam smiles down at the phone. “Is that him?” he asks.

Dean laughs – a tiny, broken thing. “Um…” Discreetly unlocks his phone.

The photo is of Castiel in some unidentifiable white-tile bathroom. He’s tilting his head and holding his phone at chin level as he takes the picture.

He’s wearing a plaid flannel that Dean immediately recognizes as his.

 **Bit of a mix up this morning,** the caption reads.

A thrill of possessiveness surges through Dean like a freight train. Cas has been in his clothes ALL morning. In public.

Dean grins despite himself. After a minute of just staring at Cas’s dumb selfie, he turns the phone over to Sam. “Cas,” is all he says.

Sam’s grin widens as he snags Dean’s phone, not even bothering to hide his excitement. It looks so tiny in his giant bear paws.

“He’s got a _nose ring_! Oh, and tats – nice. Know how you like those,” he says, smirking down at Dean’s knuckles. He thought that was a riot.

Dean flushes and snags the phone back. “Yeah, yeah, he’s hot. And he’s MINE, so back off.”

Sam puts his hands up in mock surrender, but can’t quite wipe the smirk off his face. “Yours. Got it,” he confirms.

 

They’re making out against a wall in Dean’s hallway. Sam’s at a hotel. “I’m sorry about this morning,” Dean mumbles once Cas is finished trying to swallow his tongue.

“I understand. I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Cas replies. He’s not wearing any eyeliner today – didn’t have time to put it on before Dean _kicked him out of his house._

He ignores Castiel’s apology because he doesn’t deserve it. “You stayin’ over?” Dean breathes, soothing his hands down Cas’s back as he nips at his neck. As much as he loves seeing Cas in his clothes, Cas in _nothing_ is a whole lot better.

“Can I? What about your brother?” Cas asks, not a trace of bitterness in the question. He winds his arms around Dean’s neck and subtly pulls him closer, as if trying to persuade him of a certain answer.

Dean hums contentedly. “Told him about you today. Maybe you can meet him tomorrow. We’ll get breakfast. Rice Chex,” Dean decides, capturing Cas’s mouth in another kiss.

But Cas suddenly pulls back, hands on Dean’s shoulders to hold him steady in front of him. He’s searching Dean’s face for something, but Dean doesn’t know what he’s looking for and it’s making him nervous. “What?” he asks self-consciously.

Was it not ok to suggest that? Were they not ready for that yet? Dean’s met most of Cas’s family, this shouldn’t really be a problem –

Cas takes a breath to collect himself.

“I love –”

It’s just above a whisper, a tiny declaration with a crack running through it spoken slow and sincere and sweetly, but Castiel cuts himself off when he feels Dean freeze under his hands.

His eyes are still unbearably tender as he shakes his head and says, “that shirt on you.”

Dean hears the obvious emphasis on the last syllable anyway.

He blinks. “It’s yours,” he answers dumbly, looking down at the collar.

Cas smiles at it. “Yeah.” He blinks and breathes to collect himself, pulling up a tiny smirk. “It’s also backwards,” he informs him.

Dean chokes out a laugh, heart racing. “Is it?” he asks a little hysterically, tugging the hem away from himself.

Cas laughs along with him. “Yes,” he admits.

The sound of their laughter fills the hallway, echoes off the walls until it’s silent again, their lips sealed in a long, deep kiss.

 _He loves you he loves you he loves you_ Dean chants in his head. His heart is _still_ pounding.

They pull back from their kiss eventually, foreheads resting against one another and breath ghosting over each other’s lips. Cas is smiling at Dean like he’s the only beautiful thing in the world. He nods like he’s decided something.

“Keep it,” he says, smoothing a hand down Dean’s chest, right over his heart.

Dean is speechless, but Cas seems to get that he needs a minute. He pats Dean’s shoulder and heads into the bedroom, unbuttoning Dean’s flannel as he goes.

Dean takes a minute just to breathe, leaning against the wall for support since his knees feel like Jell-O. Mechanically, he slides his arms through the holes of Cas’s t-shirt and twists it around so that the skull – sorry, _Crimson Ghost_ – is facing front on Dean’s chest. He looks down at it and traces the bottom of the decal with his thumb.

“Awesome,” he whispers.

There’s no one around to hear it but him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my buddy [Melanie](http://www.ravenwolf36.tumblr.com) for suggesting clothes sharing as a chapter idea! Go thank her.  
> And come say hi to ME on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are rules in the laundromat, dude. Also, Dean may have an anger management problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got some bamf!Dean in this chapter!  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!

There’s this dick that comes into the laundromat sometimes.

He’s rumpled and dirty looking, unkempt and shifty eyed. Dean puts his money on borderline agoraphobe, but he doesn’t like the guy so he doesn’t care to ask. He just dumps his sweaters and his corduroy slacks into a washer, uses the bare minimum of detergent and only cold water, and high tails it the fuck out of there. He brings at least two garbage bags full of clothes with him every time he shows up, and he takes up more machines than Dean can afford, truthfully.

People come in, tired college students and single moms, to find all the dryers clogged up with heavy argyle, and Dean watches their faces fall. The cycles, more often than not, are usually _done_ – the clothes are just sitting in the machine waiting for their owner to return.

And Dean gets it, ok? Shit happens, people’s lives are complicated. But when it happens _every time_ this Marv guy shows up at the ‘mat, Dean’s starting to run out of patience. The dude will not abide, man.

Lisa Braeden, who works two-sometimes-three jobs just to pay for her son Ben’s private school comes in, hair a whirlwind after her shift down at the diner, and she just deflates when she sees every machine door shut. She rubs her eyes and smiles at Dean, letting him know it’s not his fault or anything. “Do you mind if I just leave this here?” she asks, like she’s embarrassed, gesturing to her pink hamper. “I don’t have that much time off before my next shift, and Ben needs his soccer uniform cleaned by tomorrow,” she says.

Fucking Marv, with his cat food and coffee stains, and his inconsiderate dumping.

Dean marches over to the washers, rips open the door, and starts unloading Marv’s weird ass clothes into a basket at his feet, since he knows Lisa is too damn nice to do it herself. He kicks the basket to the side and sweeps his hand towards the open washer. “All yours,” he says, flashing her a smug smile.

Lisa smiles at him like she’s disappointed but mostly pleased with him, and blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. “You’re the best, Dean,” she says. She leans up and pecks him on the cheek – he’s always got candy or something for whenever Ben has to come in with his mom, they’re all pretty tight here – and starts loading her son’s clothes into the machine.

“Are you sure the guy won’t mind?” she asks, glancing down at the basket. “Kind of a dick move.”

Dean snorts a little. “Trust me, Lis. I can take him.”

Lisa sighs but doesn’t argue, and collapses her hamper. Dean takes it from her and stores it under the counter, gives her a little wave over his shoulder. “Tell Ben I said hey,” he requests. “And good luck at his game!”

Lisa smiles at him again and rushes out, throwing her hair up into a lazy ponytail. “I owe you, Dean,” she says, and Dean doesn’t have the time to tell her to forget about it.

Marv comes back to finish his laundry at the obscure time of 3:30 in the afternoon, six hours after he initially began the task.

He looks confused when he sees the machines are running, and notices the gray basket next to the machine he’d been occupying. “Hey,” he whines, pointing at the soggy lump of sweaters. “That’s my stuff,” he states, face drooping. Dean pretends he’s not paying attention. Marv takes an incensed step forward. “Aren’t you going to do something about this?”

Dean looks up then, tying off the last wash bag of the day. “Already did, compadre. Who do you think hefted all your shit out of the machine?”

He flashes him a little smirk for good measure, and he can hear Sam in his head berating him for being rude to customers. _Guy’s a dick, Sammy,_ he mentally replies.

Marv physically recoils, like he’s been slapped. “You can’t _do_ that!”

Dean scoffs. “And you really can’t take up every machine in the building, man. Either do your laundry here or don’t, but don’t half ass it and waste my time.” He kicks the bag under the counter where Marv can’t see. “I got other customers that need ‘em, you know?”

Marv scowls at him. “You could have given me a _warning_ , at least. I’ve never done anything wrong before.”

“Buddy, you are in here _all the time_ ,” Dean whines, and imaginary Sam is giving him a bitch face again. “Your stuff’s not ruined or anything, just stick it in the dryer. There’s one free over by the change machine,” he says, waving his hand towards it. He thinks that’s the end of it, but he is wrong.

He is so very, very wrong.

Marv takes another few steps forward. “Well now I have to wash it all again, don’t I? I don’t know what else you’ve been touching, and this floor looks less than spotless,” he sneers, glaring at the basket Dean’s deposited his stuff in. Dean’s about to retort that his floor is cleaner than this guy’s _life_ if his clothes are anything to go by, but then Marv has to say, “And yes, it does matter. My pants will be all wrinkled now. They won’t come out the way I like them. What do you know anyway?”

 _What do you know?_ he asks. This is Dean’s fucking business, ok, he knows more about clothes and water and soap than anyone on the fucking planet.

(Untrue, but he certainly knows more than this schlep.)

Dean hops over the counter, expression thunderous, and Marv skitters backwards, like he’s afraid Dean’s going to hurt him. “Oh, I knew it, you _are_ one of those violent types, I see those leatherheads in here all the time –” but Dean stomps right past Marv and hoists up the laundry basket of his clothes. He hulks it over his shoulder, and he storms towards the door. “Hey! Hey, what are you doing with that?” Marv asks, hurrying behind him.

Dean opens the front door, and he empties the laundry basket right onto the sidewalk. A sweater with birds on it lands half in the street, the sleeve trailing in the gutter.

Dean would throw the laundry basket too, just for effect, but he paid good money for that thing so he just holds onto it self-righteously. Marv’s already going off, blurting out insults and threats of suing, and Dean just glares at the pathetic little man. He gets all up in his face, and Marv shuts right the hell up.

“Don’t come back unless you’re gonna play by my rules, _Marv_ ,” he hisses. He shoves by the guy back into the store, and he draws the blinds on the door so he doesn’t have to watch Marv scramble to collect his things.

Maybe Dean was a little harsh. But he doesn’t tolerate disrespect, not in his own store, and especially not towards his other customers. This is a community, dammit. Anyone who doesn’t like it should get the hell out.

Plus, why’d he have to drag the punks into it, implying they were a bad influence? Fuck that guy, seriously. Dean doesn’t want his patronage anyway.

 

Charlie comes into the ‘mat later that week waving a newspaper over her head. “Tell me you’ve seen this,” she grunts, slapping down on the counter.

Dean has seen it, but he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Seen what,” he says gruffly. He’s prolonging the inevitable.

Charlie glares at him and shoves the thing forward. “That Marv guy you were telling me about, he’s a writer for the Style section. He’s totally trashing your business, Dean! Did you really assault him?”

Dean jerks his head up. “No, of course not! I just, you know…”

“Dean.”

“I threw his clothes out onto the street,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I _may_ have overreacted but trust me, Charlie, this guy deserved it.”

Charlie tilts her head back and glares at him. “You can’t just _do that_ to people, Dean. There are these little things called consequences? Heard of them?”

Thing is, Dean used to get in trouble all the time for this kind of shit. It started as fights at school, a quick skirmish on the playground, and then before he knew it Charlie was picking him up at the police station with a black eye and no memory of how he got the blood on his knuckles. That was the night Dean decided to quit drinking heavy, and quit hurting people.

Dean grumbles. “Well how was I supposed to know he’s some big shot writer?”

Charlie looks at him sadly and reaches out to curl her hand protectively over his forearm. “Hey, don’t tear yourself up about it, ok? People who really know you aren’t going to stop coming here ‘cuz of one stupid article. I mean, there’s a typo in the third paragraph. Oxford commas are important.” She waves a hand and gathers the paper up again. “Besides, who even reads the newspaper anymore? Apart from you, old man,” she adds, punching him lightly in the shoulder.

Dean sighs and snatches the paper from her. He rips the Style section in half and tosses it in the waste bin. He nods towards the stairs in the back. “Wanna take our feelings out on video games?” he asks hopefully.

Charlie smirks threateningly. “You ready to lose more than just your reputation today, Winchester?” she asks, hopping over the counter with no more fanfare. She hesitates for a moment and hugs him tight around his middle. “Try not to get so worked up about things, ok? I get that people are dicks, but I worry about you in here sometimes, all by yourself. It makes you cranky. You need friends.”

Dean scoffs to hide how much her words hit him and smooths down her hair with his hand. “I _have_ friends,” he insists. He peers down at her. “I have you.”

Charlie looks up at him from under her bangs and grins. “Yeah you do,” she confirms. She smacks his tummy as she pulls away to encourage him to move it and quit being a sap, and she whistles. “Man, you are really letting yourself _go,_ Winchester,” she complains. “It’s all marshmallow fluff down there!”

“Big talk coming from a beanpole,” Dean retorts. “I may be fat, but I could still snap you in half, Bradbury.”

“Dean, you’re built like a brick shit house, I was obviously joking. And we’ll just see about that! Hey, did I tell you about the new girl on my floor, Gilda?”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's date night!

It’s Sunday.

That means it’s Dean’s day off – no laundry to do, no customers to placate, just a quiet day at home and a ratty sofa calling his name. Last night’s _Dr. Sexy, MD_ is waiting for him in his DVR rotation. Sure, he wandered down into the ‘mat that morning to run some general maintenance, clean out the machines before the work day tomorrow, but that’s about it. His mind has been on other things.

He and Cas have scheduled date night tonight (their first, in fact) since Cas knew he would be off – they were going to go to dinner together, like _out in public_ to dinner. Dean was bouncing all over the place in anticipation.

Ever since he came to his Mold Scrubbing Realization not too long ago he’d been desperately yearning for some time to parade his budding relationship around, and tonight would finally be the night. He was looking forward to it: they had a reservation at one of those nice bistros uptown and Cas even promised he’d dress nice.

Dean had been out of the shop for only a few hours as he pondered getting ready for his date. He’d already called Charlie for advice two times and, after lengthy deliberation, had finally decided on his outfit. To quell some of the anxiety that still had him twitching like a nervous third grader, Dean clomped down the stairs of his apartment to shut off the rinse cycle going through the washers. He would hate to get halfway to the restaurant only to realize he’d left the washing machine running.

He opens the door that takes him through the back room, and freezes once he drops down the last step.

His feet are wet. Why are his feet wet.

WHY ARE HIS FEET WET?

In a panic, Dean skids to the front of the shop, slipping in the thin layer of water coating the floor, and watches on in horror as a steady stream of water trickles across the tile, running down the slanted floor from behind the row of washing machines.

It’s impossible to tell which machine the flood is coming from. It could even be more than one machine leaking, Dean has no idea, and each machine uses 30 gallons per load. That’s… that’s a lot of goddamn water spilling out onto Dean’s floor right now.

“Shit! Shit, SHIT!” Dean hisses to himself, turning back around and heading for the fuse box. He can’t just hit the Cancel button on the machine; that would automatically advance the drain cycle, which means more water. He has to kill the power running to each machine, since they’re all hooked up to one circuit.

Once he switches off the machines and hears them die out with one last forlorn gurgle, he slowly turns again to examine the damage.

The laundry basket holding the slush pile has holes in it, so of course every unclaimed item in it is soaked through. He can already see the water damage on the laminate counter, and Dean’s just lucky that the water level isn’t high enough that the garment bags hanging on the rack are trailing in the mess. Knowing his luck, this is not only going to be an expensive fix, but one that will take up a lot of time and patience. He might even have to _close_ tomorrow.

He beats his hand against the wall once and sullenly approaches the back wall. The laundromat is a cell-signal dead zone, so Dean left the landline the previous owner had installed a million years ago when he built the place. He punches in Castiel's number on the faded keypad and sighs again.

“Hi,” Cas chirps on the other line. “I’m just about re– ”

“I have to cancel,” Dean tells him, trying so hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“What? Is everything ok?” Cas asks, genuine concern saturating the receiver.

Dean brings his free hand up to rub at his eyes. “No. Everything is _not_ ok,” he snaps. He doesn’t mean to take it out on Cas, he’s just so _frustrated_. “I don’t know what happened. The place is flooded, I gotta get a guy out here to take a look at the machines before we open tomorrow, mop all this shit up…”

He sighs in one huge breath and shakes his head at nothing. Water has totally seeped through his socks. “I’m so sorry, Cas,” he says helplessly.

It’s all he can say.

“Dean, I understand. I hope everything is fixed with the utmost expedience.”

Dean laughs a little breathlessly – how is it that Cas is so good at grounding him when he needs it?

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Cas continues patiently.

He’s being so great. Too good to Dean. This was supposed to be their night, and Dean’s bailing on him _again_. “I’m going to make this up to you. I promise,” Dean tells him seriously.

Cas chuckles a little on the other end. “Good luck, all right? I’ll see you soon.”

“See you.”

The line clicks dead and Dean smashes his forehead against the headset irately. “Why, why, why,” he mumbles.

He returns the phone to its cradle, turns around, and puts his hands on his hips. “Well,” he announces to the empty shop. “No time like the present.”

 

After he checks the hoses and can’t find any obvious leak, he calls the appliance technician. Because Dean’s a smart guy, he’d had a central drain installed in the floor in case of an emergency exactly like this one, but the draining’s slow and he still has to do a lot of the clean up himself.

He lays down every fluffy bath towel he owns and grabs a mop from the supply closet. He’s trying to shove it under the lip of a sopping machine when a knock comes from the front door.

He assumes it’s the repair guy – _wow, great response time_ – so he heads over immediately, wiping his hands on his jeans.

It’s not the repair guy.

It’s Cas, dressed to the nines in the suit Dean was hoping he’d wear and holding a plastic bag in one hand. His hair’s been combed. He isn’t wearing any eyeliner or nail polish. He took the ring out of his nose.

Dean hardly recognizes him.

“Uh,” he gasps.

Cas just smiles and nods at him. “Hello, Dean. May I come in?”

Dean just steps back from the door and waves him in. “Make yourself at home.”

Cas walks by him and Dean catches a whiff of something sage-y as he passes – is that _cologne_? Did Cas put on cologne for this? For him?

Cas slides on the floor a little as he walks into the store, throwing his extra arm out for balance and definitely ruining those nice shiny dress shoes he’s got on. Dean catches his hand to steady him and winces at the thought.

Cas’s eyes are wide as he takes in the place. “Oh,” he says. “That is a lot of water.”

Dean sighs, but doesn’t let go of his hand. “You should have seen it earlier,” he says morosely. “It’s mostly drained, but the floor’s still not dry. So…”

He gestures weakly to the soaked through towels littering the tile.

Castiel nods with his business face on – narrowed eyes, mouth pulled down in a tiny frown – and lets go of Dean’s hand to loosen his tie. “Have you called someone out here?”

Dean frowns. “Yeah, but you know they won’t show up for hours. I’ve got to wait for them all night.”

Cas tsks and starts wandering over to the counter, dropping the plastic bag next to the register and rolling up his sleeves. There are water droplets dotting the back of his charcoal slacks, stray beads he’d kicked up while crossing the room.

“What are you even doing here, man? Not that I don’t like seein’ you or anything, but you’re… you’re going to ruin your suit,” Dean bemoans, for lack of better things to say.

Cas smiles. “First of all, don’t worry about the suit. I have an excellent dry cleaner,” he says, finally turning back around to look Dean in the eye. He winks at him and it makes Dean a little bit breathless.

“Second, I thought that if you were so upset about missing tonight, I could just come to you.”

He sheepishly pulls a white box out of the plastic bag. “I hope you like lo mein.”

Dean feels the grateful smile worm its way onto his face slow as molasses and does absolutely nothing to stop it. “Cas?” he says. “You’re awesome.”

Castiel shrugs like he knows it and puts the carton down on the counter. “What can I do?” he asks.

Dean shrugs. “Honestly? Not much. Maybe check the supply closet and see if we’ve got any more towels stashed.”

Cas smirks slightly. “Shall I hunt down a ‘Wet Floor’ sign?” he asks.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Hunt to your heart’s content, buddy,” he answers, halfheartedly swiping a towel along the floor with his foot.

 

It isn’t the night they’d planned. Dean’s still in a holey flannel and hasn’t shaved yet today, and their reservation will go totally unclaimed. The Wet Floor sign that Cas actually manages to dig up reads something more like “Caution: We loor,” and the R is only half intact.

But this is really all Dean needs. Sitting on the counter of his laundromat, swinging his legs back and forth while his bare feet air dry, jeans rolled up past his ankle. Eating cold Chinese food pressed shoulder to hip against Cas while they wait for the repair guy to show. Playfully flicking puddle water at each other to pass the time, kissing sweet sauce out of each other’s mouths.

Yeah. This is pretty good too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is how it starts.

Dean remembers the first day he stepped into the laundromat.

He was twelve years old, Sammy was eight. They had driven in from the west, leaving mountains, soy fields, and dirt roads behind them. Dean had been in a couple cities before this one, so it didn’t seem that special to him at first. In fact, it may have actually looked dirtier than some of the places they’d lived before.

They were just rambling downtown like they usually do, John coasting at a comfortable 10 miles an hour or so to scan for Help Wanted signs in the windows. Dean and Sam were playing with a handmade cootie catcher in the backseat, twisting to face each other from under their seatbelts. Sam had just selected a color when John slammed on the brakes.

They parked in the side alley next to the ‘mat, not on the street, and John instructed Sam and Dean to stay in the car. He took the keys with him, so they couldn’t even listen to the radio while they waited for him to come back.

Dean was pretty nervous sitting in the car by himself, but Sam didn’t seem bothered. He was intent on trying to jam his toy soldier into the ashtray.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean instructed, kicking open the door.

Sam frowned. “Dad said to stay here,” he said, like he couldn’t think of a reason not to do just that.

Dean shrugged. “Just come on.”

They could already see into the building as they walked by – giant windows rose up from the floor until they hit a red sign: Laundromat Cleaners. Warm, fluorescent lights flickered in greeting as they stepped through the doors.

The floor was faux linoleum paneling, peeling a little at the edges with bubbles and stain spots. There were a few rickety machines that were neither the same size nor color. The man at the counter talking to his dad looked sort of disinterested, until his eyes twitched over to where Dean and Sam were huddled by the change machine.

“Are these your kids?” the man asked, smiling over at them.

John turned around, and Dean watched his father’s face pinch like it always did when Dean did something wrong. “Yeah, that’s them. Dean and little Sammy.”

Sam huffed under his breath at being called little, but didn’t do anything to correct him.

The man at the counter nodded. “Alright, John. You can start on Tuesday. It’s gotta be rough raising two kids in a city like this one.”

John nodded. “Thank you, Azazel. I really appreciate it.”

 

“I miss Uncle Bobby,” Sam says out of the blue one day.

Dean frowns at him. “Yeah?”

Sam shrugs. He’s rolling a matchbox car between his feet, slumped against the wall. “Mhm. He had a cool house,” he says. He scowls. “We don’t even _have_ a house.”

Dean shrugs. “We might get one, though. Later.”

Sam scoffs, but says nothing. At eight years old, he’s already developed a healthy sense of cynicism.

This was all part of the routine. Sam had never known any different, but Dean did. He remembered when this whole thing started, right after Mom died and Dad decided he couldn't be anywhere near that house anymore. John would find a new job, they’d stay there a few months, and then pack up and leave when he needed a new one. John’s got two jobs now, one at the laundromat and one at the bar down the street at night, so they’ve got enough money for now. Maybe they’ll head back to Bobby’s again after.

They've been sleeping in the Impala, in an alley down the street so Mr. Azazel wouldn’t find out.

Dean grins and knocks his brother with his elbow. “This place is pretty cool, right? Beats that department store job by a mile.” He’s not even lying – he really does think the laundromat is cool. It’s small, but it’s filled with stuff Dean’s never seen before. He can fit his whole body in the dryers.

Sam rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little. “Not better than the construction job, though,” he says. “That one had the best hiding spots.”

Dean stands and gestures for Sam to follow. “Wanna explore?”

Sam sighs, but stands as well. “I guess so.” He puts the matchbox car in his pocket, and they’re off.

Azazel’s allowed John to bring Sam and Dean to work with him, so long as they don’t touch anything and keep out of the way of the customers. There’s a bathroom that they’re allowed to use and a storage closet they can play in. Sam’s favorite activity quickly becomes zipping in between the rotating clothes rack, rustling garment bags and laughing as he goes. John sometimes humors them and plays hide and seek when he has a minute, in between writing tickets and cleaning out the machines. One day he actually full-on belly laughs, picks Dean up and hangs him from the clothing rack, and Dean swings and smiles until he can’t anymore.

Slowly and against his better judgment, he learns to like the laundromat.

It smells bad, like a public pool in the summer time mixed with stale mothballs, and Sam always complains but Dean doesn’t mind so much. They’ve stayed in motel rooms that have smelled worse than this. Plus – and he never says this out loud – the smell of the laundry detergent makes him think of his mom.

They very rarely see Azazel, but when they do he always seems to go out of his way to make sure they’re having a good time. His eyes are weirdly yellow, and it unsettles Dean a little bit. Sam doesn’t really like him, either. “Just a feeling,” he says when Dean asks. He knows he isn’t supposed to ask about his eyes – that’s rude – so he just tries to be polite whenever Azazel asks him a question. He doesn’t want to get his dad in trouble.

School starts. There’s a public one a few blocks from the ‘mat, as Sam starts to call it, so they walk there every morning after John unlocks the store and puts in the first few loads. “Hold Dean’s hand,” he commands, “and don’t lose your lunch money. Ok?”

“Ok,” they chorus. John nods a dismissal and they’re out the door.

Dean doesn’t bother making friends, since he knows they’ll be leaving soon anyway. Sam makes a couple easily and doesn’t stop talking about them all the way back to the ‘mat. He’s glad his brother’s so popular – maybe he’ll stop whining about having to move every six weeks if he’s got something to occupy his time.

Dean’s expecting to take off any day now, but they stay. August melts into September melts into January. John can afford to keep a little apartment down the street. They’ve never had an _apartment_ before. Dean and Sam get _their own room_. Dean wonders what makes this job, this place any different from the other ones before, and promptly decides he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to jinx it.

The laundromat must be magic, and Dean thanks God every day that they found it.

John works there for years. In the summers, he teaches Dean how to run the machines while Sam’s away at space camp. He makes a killing from little old ladies who like to tip the nice young man generously, and Azazel jokes about it being a family business.

By the time he gets to high school, Dean knows every crack in the linoleum and every ding in the chassis of a dryer. He knows exactly how fast the rack turns and how long it takes to do a load of laundry (Sam buys him a stupid egg timer but Dean knows all he has to do is hum Stairway To Heaven four times back-to-back). He gets teased for being the laundry boy at school and all his clothes smell like a springtime field.

The day Azazel dies is the day that everything REALLY changes for the Winchesters.

Dad explains that Azazel had something called hepatitis, which is why his eyes were always yellow like that, and that it ended up killing him. None of them are too broken up about it, but John tells them that the guy left him the whole laundromat, that it’s _theirs_ now.

The first thing John does after the legal’s taken care of is put up a new sign, squeezed between “Laundromat” and “Cleaners.” It says “Winchester” in tiny, pathetic little letters. It’s still the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen.

“Now it really is a family business,” Dean jokes as they stare up at it together.

John claps a hand down on Dean’s shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything. Dean looks at his father, a tired, graying man, and watches the slow smile on his face.

Apart from the night of the fire, it’s the only time he’s ever seen his father cry. Looking up at a big sign with their name on it.

“One day,” John tells him. “This is gonna be yours.”

They scrap the Impala and put the money into repairs. That’s how Dean knows they’re through moving around. He’d always sort of hoped, but. Now he KNOWS. All the money goes back into the ‘mat: they buy some new machines that are all the same color and renovate the floor with real tile. They enlist Sam and all Sam’s friends to repaint the walls. Dean pours all the sweat and blood and tears he has into those renovations, and the place has never looked better.

They make it a home.

 

The apartment upstairs frees up. The tenants send John a courtesy letter in the mail so he knows before it actually goes on the market.

Sam jumps on it like white on rice. “Dad, you gotta put in an offer, we’d own the whole building then, Dad you have to get the apartment, it’s like they’re dropping it in your lap.”

But John doesn’t, says in a gruff voice that he’s fine with just the store and their apartment downtown, they don’t need anything else, and they get into a huge fight over it. They’re screaming about property value and assets and market prices at an all-time high or something and Dean doesn’t see them speak to each other for three days afterwards.

“You know we can afford it,” Sam grumbles over dinner one night while John’s at the bar.

Dean shrugs. “He doesn’t want it.”

Sam puts down his fork and stares at Dean for a long time. Dean doesn’t look up. He knows what Sam is going to say.

“How much do you have in your savings?” Sam asks him.

Dean sighs. “Enough for the deposit,” he admits.

Sam freezes. “Dean. What if. What if _you_ –”

Dean shakes his head, but Sam persists. “No, no, wait a second. We both know I’m never gonna work there, but you love that place, Dean. I think you loved it the minute we walked in. It’s going to be yours,” Sam tells him.

Dean tries not to feel hurt. Sam leaving them has always been on his list of biggest fears, but now the kid’s considering FAR AWAY colleges like Stanford and Chicago and Miami and it’s suddenly starting to feel very real. He’s talking about a time in the near future when he assumes _he will not be here_.

“This is your chance to make what Dad has  _better_ ,” Sam says. “You don’t even have to live there. You could rent it out. Or, you know, if you want your own place –”

“I’ll do it,” Dean says. “I’ll do it, Sam.”

Sam beams but Dean huffs a deep, long breath. “I’m gonna need to take out a loan,” he says, as he drags a hand down his face.

Sam nods vigorously. “I can help you. I’ve got a friend who’s a business major at the community college – he can help us out.”

 

For how proud that business made his father, for the security it gave them growing up (long overdue), Dean loves that decrepit old business on the corner. And he’s proud to live with it. He doesn’t need much else.

Dean snags the apartment without telling John and plunges himself into debt. The previous tenants are thrilled to give it to him, wouldn't have felt comfortable handing it over to anybody else.

Sam throws a little party just for the two of them in the crumbling, dirty living room with a cheap bottle of sparkling wine – _Jesus, not even champagne_ – that he nicked from the corner store.

He grins as they pass the bottle between the two of them, staring out the window to the street.

“Here’s to keepin’ it in the family,” Sam says.

Dean nods, and the knot in his chest loosens just a little. “Yep. Here’s to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoLY COW A NEW CHAPTER?????? AmaZINg!11!!!1!  
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com) Thanks for sticking with me, guys <3


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the next logical step.

Dean has had his whole life to put together a routine for himself. His work and his home are right on top of each other, and since he runs _both_ singlehandedly no one has ever been in his way. Squeezing somebody else into that is a lot easier than he initially thought it would be.

Castiel is always hanging out at the laundromat with Dean just so he can be close to him, and he’s been such a help around the place that Dean thinks maybe he should start paying him. He lets him keep the tips in the jar by the register at least. Most days Cas gets there in the late afternoon, when most of the loads are already done. Dean divides the clean stuff into two piles – one for him and one for Cas – and they fold side by side at the front counter while Dean chats with the old ladies and kids fawn over Castiel’s colored hair and tats.

Dean folds clothes tight with quick efficiency. He knows the best way to crease a shirt, to iron pants and leave them pressed sharp and clean. He’s had years of practice. Castiel takes his time with it – he gets distracted sometimes with details. One time a beaded blouse ended up in his hands and he sat there for half an hour just trimming away the loose threads, smoothing down the beads like dragon scales or bird feathers, arranging them so each was in its proper place. Dean kept a close eye on him the whole time, mostly because the whole thing was just so endearing. He ended up finishing his pile far quicker than Castiel, but that’s alright. He helped Cas finish his, too.

Another time, Dean had just finished shutting off most of the lights out front and locking up the door, and he turned around to see Castiel hunched over a bundle of dark blue fabric in one of the chairs in the waiting area. He couldn’t see what Cas was doing at first – thought maybe he had gotten tired and was taking a nap in some clean, warm blanket – but as he moved closer Cas didn’t even seem to notice. He was slowly pulling a needle and thread through the torn inside pocket of a blue blazer.

He moved with such care for something that wasn’t even his, brow furrowed and mouth just a touch of sad. Dean leaned there against the counter and watched him work in silence until he finished, when Cas finally raised his head and announced, “I’d like to go to bed, now.”

Then Cas starts staying over with regularity. It’s the next logical step.

Dean’s alarm goes off at 5:00 sharp. He’s usually stirring awake by then anyway, depending on how late he and Cas were up the night before. He rolls over Cas, pops out of bed, and takes a shower. Cas will sleep right through the whole thing until Dean rouses him for coffee.

Castiel, clearly, has never been nor will ever be a morning person, because he manages to look fifty shades of surly whenever he stumbles into the kitchen. Dean feeds him cereal and caffeine, Cas tilts his head to read the paper hanging on the wire hanger at the kitchen island through squinty eyes, and neither of them say a word. Dean may not see him smile all morning, but he doesn’t take it personally.

The first thing that puts a smile on Cas’s face is when Dean puts in the first load of laundry.

He naps in the back room while Dean empties the hampers, nurses his cup of coffee down in the back room in his boxers and Dean’s bathrobe. Dean’s told him many times that he’s welcome to stay upstairs and sleep, but Cas always shakes his head and grumbles something about the bed being cold with lidded eyes and an unfair pout. But as soon as that timer dings ready, Cas is up out of his seat like a shot, mug cold and abandoned on the tile.

“Ready?” Dean will ask him, the first real word of the morning.

Cas nods, a little life springing back into his gorgeous, sleepy eyes, and opens the dryer door.

He digs out all the finished clothes, and promptly buries his face in the warm, lavender-scented pile.

“Ahhhhh,” Dean hears him moan.

Dean laughs a little and nudges a wash bag closer to him with his foot. “You know, if our customers knew you were sniffing their delicates, they would stop coming here,” he says.

Cas pulls his face out of the pile in laundry in his arms to reveal a blissful grin. “It’s warm,” is all he says. He pecks Dean on the lips. “Good morning,” he finally says, at least three hours after they’ve already woken up.

God, Dean can’t imagine a better start to the day.

At first Cas would just watch Dean do all this, but as time goes on and Castiel becomes a more permanent fixture at the ‘mat, he starts loading on his own.

The first attempt is disastrous, but luckily doesn’t involve any of the customers’ stuff. Cas is a fully functioning adult who has been – presumably – living on his own for the past few years. Dean doesn’t even bat an eye when he drags their personal laundry basket away from the chute and starts sorting the pile into two machines out front. Dean appreciates the help, actually. The whole point of life in his opinion is to find someone who will wash your dirty underwear for you.

It’s when he takes it out that he realizes maybe he should have given Cas _The Talk_.

“Cas!” Dean shouts, holding a dripping dress shirt in front of him.

Cas walks out of the back and leans against the counter, eyebrows raised. “Yes?” he asks.

Dean turns and holds it up higher so Cas can see. “What color is this shirt?” he asks.

Cas frowns. “Pink,” he answers, uncertain.

Dean sighs and shuts his eyes. “What color was it when you started?” he asks.

Castiel shrugs. “Pink, probably.”

Dean can’t help laughing once. “Wrong answer.”

He holds up a pair of Castiel’s grandpa boxers – which are _definitely supposed to be white_ – that are also stained a light, pleasant pink. Castiel’s face colors instantly.

“Separate the whites and colors next time, ok babe?” Dean suggests, not even mad in the slightest. Unusual, considering he would probably have Sam’s ass if he turned any of Dean’s shit pink.

Cas rubs the back of his neck embarrassedly and promises to buy Dean a new shirt.

(He wears pink underwear for three weeks.)

They play chess together while they wait for the loads to finish and they’ve got a slow day ahead of them. Cas beats him nearly every time but occasionally Dean manages to catch him up in a sweet move and that always makes the defeat worth it. Cas runs upstairs and makes himself and Dean sandwiches in the middle of the day. One of Dean’s favorite new traditions is huddling together on the floor behind the garment bags, watching them rotate around them while they eat and chat with one another. It’s their own little oasis, just like when Dad would take him and Sam shopping in thrift stores and Dean would yank his little brother deep into a rack of clothes, where they’d hide in the dark swathed in the scent of cheap laundry detergent.

Of course Cas will leave to go back to the apartment he shares with Mike and Gabe and Balthazar to pick up some clothes or just to see his family, but Dean selfishly hates it when he leaves. He misses the raucous white noise of the Ramones drifting down the laundry chute as Cas makes lunch in the afternoon, he misses their occasional bubble-bath-and-make-out-session after a long day, he misses holding Cas’s hand under the counter and trying to convince him that you _can_ actually fold clothes one-handed.

Sure, he had built up a routine that revolved around him. But once Cas came along, he found out just how _lonely_ that lifestyle could truly be. Cas makes him laugh, makes him feel soft again, happy.

He doesn’t mean to say it. It just sort of slips out one day when he’s not being careful.

It's a regular Tuesday. He wakes up at 5:00, just like every other morning, and Cas gurgles next to him before rolling over. He curls his knees a little closer to his chest. Dean leans over and kisses his bare shoulder. “Morning,” he whispers, though he knows at best all he’ll get is a grunt in return.

He steps over the lip of the tub and into his tiny shower, smiling slightly when he sees the black eyeliner pencil on the edge of the sink. He isn’t even mad that Cas has smudged some into the granite and his face towels and that he has to pre-treat them before he washes them now. He loves it, he really does. It means Cas is comfortable here, in himself and with Dean.

He’s surprised when after a few moments alone the curtain pulls back and he feels Cas step into the shower with him. He’s got soap in his eyes so he doesn’t open them, but Cas wipes it away with his thumbs, kisses Dean once and reaches around him for the shampoo. “Good morning,” he greets in a raspy whisper, and it’s some kind of miracle that Cas has uttered a word before the sun has risen.

Dean kisses his neck, humming in response, and Cas drags a soapy slick hand down Dean’s bare back. He shivers.

“I love you,” he breathes, even though he doesn’t mean to.

He feels Cas press a kiss to his wet hair. It feels like a dream. The steam around them makes everything foggy, not real, not his. He must still be asleep – he can say anything he wants here. So he whispers “love you” again, just because he can. Cas already said it anyway, sort of, so it doesn't really matter.

Cas doesn’t say a word, but he does tilt Dean’s chin up and kisses him deeply with his eyes closed. He’s been growing his hair out for a while now. Dean can run both hands through it.

An hour later, when the hot water’s run out and Cas goes to make coffee on shaky legs while Dean towels off, Dean sees a few dripping letters carved in the steam on the mirror.

_Love you 2._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dreamy sigh* this was so great to write.  
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes a little overboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes another appearance! Sort of.  
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)

Dean doesn’t want to smother him so he avoids calling Sam all hours of the day, but he does hear from the kid from time to time. One overcast morning in September a package is delivered to his doorstep first thing with a California return address, and Dean has to restrain himself from racing up the stairs to tear it open like it’s fucking Christmas morning. It rattles when he shakes it.

He grabs a pair of scissors from the kitchen and cuts open the box. He lifts the note out first:

_Dean –_

_Hope things are good, Jess says these work wonders. Go nuts but don’t be a dork about it ;)_

_– S_

Confused, Dean lays the note flat on the counter. _Dork,_ he calls him, as if Dean’s the one paying thousands of dollars to sit in a library all day. He lifts the tab of the cardboard box up and takes one tiny item out of the bottom.

It looks like just a regular reddish orange marker. There are like ten of them in the box, and Dean’s not really sure why his little brother thought that he would appreciate a box full of Sharpies, but they’re here so – ohhhHH MY _GOD._

 _Tide To Go Instant Stain Remover,_ the label reads.

Dean’s mouth drops open. A stain removing pen? Could it be? Have we advanced enough as a people that we are now capable of such technology?

Tamping down on his excitement with a healthy bit of skepticism, he carries the pen over to his laptop (left discarded on the sofa) and pulls up Google. He needs to know everything about it before he puts it on his clothes – what’s in it, will it leave a stain, does it actually work, etc. He spends about two hours reading product reviews and watching demonstrations on YouTube before he shuts the computer at last.

By most accounts the Tide To Go pen is breathtaking, it’s a revelation, and Dean has to try it out right this second.

He runs down to the laundromat and digs around in his laundry basket for something stained, shaking it out impatiently. His Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt has had a bacon grease stain on the hem since he was twenty one and careless in the kitchen, and he would love nothing more than to restore it to its former glory. He lays it flat and shakes the pen a few times before scratching away at the tiny stain on the edge.

He rubs in a little extra detergent and runs the whole thing under warm water, and holds it up close to his face.

“Oh my god!” he laughs excitedly. The stain’s completely gone, and it does smell a little funny but it’s nothing a quick run in the dryer with a new sheet won’t fix up.

“Oh my god,” Dean repeats, quickly vaulting over the counter and pulling up a few more stained articles of clothing. He repeats the process on several more stains, and they all seem to vanish without a trace. He texts Cas an excited **U WILL NOT BELIEVE WHAT SAM JUST SENT ME** and ignores Cas’s gentle teasing that Tide To Go is hardly a new product.

His life is going to be so much easier now. Pre-treating – which he HATES – will go so much quicker. He sends Sam a tear-jerking thank you note.

Dean goes a little overboard, since he just can’t help it.

He takes a mug down into the ‘mat and sticks it on the counter, fills it with Tide sticks and puts a tiny note on the front that says, “Take one!” He practically fills his hand basket at the supermarket with them. The cashier looks at him oddly until he feels the need to tell him, “I run a dry cleaning service. Hey, is that coffee on your sleeve? I got it.” He’s like a fucking Jehovah’s witness of clean.

He carries one around with him at all times in his back pocket, ever vigilant, and whips it out every chance he gets. Spills ketchup on his jeans at Donnie’s bar? No problem – Tide pen. Some little kid splashes him with ice cream on the sidewalk? No problem – Tide pen. He sticks one in Hael’s front pocket when she comes in to bring him lunch one day and she just rolls her eyes. “I don’t need this,” she tells him.

“Everyone needs this,” Dean insists. “These things are little miracles.”

He keeps them in his sock drawer. One in the medicine cabinet. Two in the kitchen. One under the sofa cushions in case of emergency. He puts one behind his ear while he’s putting in the third load of the day. There is Tide To Go EVERYWHERE. He finds one of the stray cats who stops by the alley sometimes chewing on an empty one by his back door and flips his shit.

“I told you not to be a dork about it,” Sam sighs over the phone. “You’re scaring Cas, you know. He’s sent me, like, six concerned text messages in the last twenty four hours.”

Dean scoffs. “I can stop any time I want to. I just don’t want to.”

“You are so embarrassing.”

The novelty of Tide To Go does wear off and Dean’s fascination eventually does fade, but still… sometimes on a rainy day, Castiel will sit down on the sofa and pull a red orange pen out from under his thigh, Princess and the Pea style.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not every couple's perfect. And ESPECIALLY not them.

Cas studies him blithely from behind his magazine. “You know, using cold water is more environmentally friendly.”

Dean frowns as he untucks one leg of the pair of jeans in his hands before tossing them into the washing machine. “What?”

“Washing with cold water,” Cas repeats. “It costs less, it’s better for the environment, and it won’t bleed colors,” he tells Dean, as if he doesn’t already know. “It would take less time to do one load if you didn’t have to separate them,” he continues, like a bulldozer made of stupid rolling all over Dean’s livelihood.

“Cas. I like you. So please shut up,” Dean just says, shaking some spare change out of another pair of jeans.

Castiel frowns and _puts down his magazine._ Shit’s serious. “Time saver,” he repeats. “I don’t understand why you’re being so pigheaded about this.”

Dean rolls his head back, groaning. “You may _think_ it’s a time saver, dude, but bottom line is that cold water doesn’t get shit clean. It doesn’t kill germs, either. You gotta re-wash everything to get stains out and by then you’ve used JUST AS MUCH WATER as you would if you were using hot. So,” Dean says, concluding his speech with an inelegant raspberry.

He chucks a t-shirt in with the jeans. Cas’s eyes narrow.

“It also keeps your clothes from stretching, fading, or shrinking.”

“I happen to like a little give, sweetheart.”

“You don’t have to be mean.”

“Well you don’t have to be a baby,” Dean retorts. “I know what I’m doing – I don’t need your help.”

Cas scoffs and goes out the back door. He’s probably going to have a cigarette – he does that sometimes when Dean’s being an ass.

“Cold water won’t wash that gross smell off you either!” Dean shouts after him. He thinks maybe he gets a middle finger in response.

 

“AH! _FUCK!_ ” Dean shrieks, clutching his foot.

“What’s the matter?” Cas asks, turning around and looking concerned.

Dean kicks one of Cas’s boots away from him, hissing a little. “I stepped on your freaking _death shoe,_ ” he says, gesturing to the boot. It’s got large spikes rising up from the toe, and was partially hidden under the couch. “I’ve got puncture wounds,” Dean hisses dramatically.

Cas just rolls his eyes. “Now who’s being a baby,” he mutters.

“I heard that, you dick!” Dean shouts. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Yes, you caught me. It was cold-hearted sabotage.”

Cas walks away, and Dean growls. “That’s it. No more sex until you learn how to pick up after yourself,” he threatens.

Cas sticks his head back into the room, looking very unimpressed with Dean’s threat. “I have made it nearly 30 years with my right hand, Winchester. Don’t underestimate me.”

He walks away again, and Dean sneers. “Don’t you have your own apartment to fuck around in?” he grumbles to himself. He reluctantly picks Cas’s boots up off the floor and puts them away in the hall closet.

It’s like this all the time – Dean picking up empty sticky nail polish bottles off the coffee table, hunting for the mugs that Cas leaves all over the apartment when he’s done drinking his dumb herbal tea, digging socks out from under the bed – but this is the last straw. This time he has been caused bodily _harm._ He’ll show him.

Dean’s in a shitty mood for the rest of the week trying to make good on his threat, but it doesn’t last long. They stay in bed and have begrudging hate-sex all weekend.

Cas leaves his socks balled up at the foot of the bed and a mug on the nightstand.

 

Dean grins as he blinks awake, feeling a pleasant ache in his limbs and warm and comfy under two comforters and huddled close to his space heater of a boyfriend. He twists a little and nuzzles into Cas’s neck, running his hands down his sides to grab at his thighs. Cas has one arm thrown over his face, but he groans a little as Dean squeezes.

He’s totally awake.

“Morning, babe,” Dean greets, rubbing his cheek into Cas’s hair. He pecks his forehead and feels Cas smile.

He pulls his arm down and leans up. “Morning,” he mumbles.

Dean can see the kiss coming from a mile away, and he jerks his head to the side. Cas ends up missing his mouth, colliding with a stubbly jaw. “What?” he mumbles. Dean can hear a pout coming on.

Dean tries to discreetly turn onto his side. “You haven’t brushed your teeth this morning,” he complains.

Cas frowns. “I brushed them last night. That was 6 hours ago,” he replies, in a confused and sleepy rough voice that Dean might actually consider just letting this go for.

No, he can’t let it go. Dean’s all for a little fun in the morning, but he’s got to draw the line somewhere. “Yeah, but since then you’ve had a dick in your mouth and allowed millions of bacteria to multiply on your tongue. Brush your god damn teeth before you get anywhere near me,” Dean demands.

Cas rolls his eyes and flips the covers off harshly, muttering the whole way to the bathroom.

He taps his fingers as he brushes his teeth – a tad too fast and hard in his impatience; his gums start to bleed a little – and just to be a dick he doesn’t floss. He slides back into the bedroom and approaches the bed with a squinty, skeptical look. Dean takes a minute to rove over his body, memorizing the way his muscles flex under his skin and how his tattoos dance with the movement.

“There. Are you happy now?”

“No,” Dean answers. “Now the bed is cold.”

Cas smacks him in the face with a pillow.

 

Cas frowns at the television. “I don’t think it’s wise that Dr. Sexy wear cowboy boots in a hospital. He should change into more reasonable footwear.”

Dean squawks out a “oh HELL no!” and forcibly shoves Castiel out of the apartment.

 

“That’s not where those go,” Dean tells him.

He can see Cas’s head roll back in exasperation. “Does it honestly matter which shelves the dryer sheets go on? Your supply closet is four feet wide – it’s not like you’re going to _lose them_ ,” Castiel mutters, back still to him.

Dean bites his lip. _Don’t be a dick don’t be a –_ “Yes, it does matter,” he blurts out anyways.

Castiel calmly sets the last box of dryer sheets in his hands on the same, wrong shelf. He shuts the closet door and walks away.

“I need to go punch something,” he says calmly.

Dean doesn’t argue, just reopens the closet door and begins rearranging to his heart’s content. “Try not to get anyone arrested, ok?”

Castiel grunts and yanks open the front door.

Dean is about halfway done reorganizing when the door opens back up again.

“You’re ridiculous,” Castiel tells him, “and you drive me crazy sometimes, but I still love you.”

Dean snorts and turns back around, boxes of dryer sheets in his hands. “Yeah, dude. Same. I mean, you don’t think I appreciate you trying to help out?” he asks, waving the boxes in his hands. “I kinda like that you mess stuff up. It’s cute. I like figuring stuff out with you.”

Castiel smiles and he softens just a little bit around the edges. “I’m sorry for doing everything wrong and being a slob and –”

“I’m sorry for being stubborn and insensitive and –”

They stand there for a couple minutes more, and then Castiel jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “When I come back we should make up _properly_.”

Dean grins and puts the boxes on the right shelves. “Now _that_ is something I think we can agree on.”

 

Sure, they might fight from time to time. It doesn’t mean they don’t care about each other, and they're more than willing to work through it.

Besides, the only thing better than hate-sex is make-up-sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)!


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frenemies. Pop art. _Clothes._ The works.

Dean has been contracted to save a fuck load of clothes that are, in his opinion, far past their prime. Threadbare sweaters and t-shirts with graphics peeling and flaking so much that the original image isn’t even recognizable anymore, canary pit stains, stuff like that. People have a tendency to hold onto the things they love most, and the grungy wear is just part of a ‘look.’

That is not to say, of course, that the punks never go shopping.

He gets a call from Cas early one afternoon on the age-old landline as he’s folding laundry downstairs. He sets down the shirt he’d been folding and unhooks the phone from the receiver on the wall, picking at some chipping paint under the cord. “Hello,” he answers dully (no caller ID down here).

“Hi, it’s me,” Cas rumbles, barely lingering on the greeting. “Do you know what size pants I wear? The measurements,” he asks.

Dean replies, “You’re a 32” without having to even think about it, because he’s been washing and folding Cas’s clothes for months now. “Why?”

“I’m at SEX and Meg wasn’t sure what to put me in. Thank you, I’ll see you tonight,” Cas says, to the point as usual.

Dean’s left with a beeping phone line and a buffering psyche. _He’s where? Did I hear the word ‘sex’ in there somewhere or was that just wishful thinking? And who the hell is Meg?_

Maybe it’s just because he’s been slowly moving more and more of himself into Dean’s apartment (he doesn’t want to talk about it, it’s freaking him out), but after that call Dean begins to notice a change in Castiel’s wardrobe. He’s swapped out a lot of his old flaky t-shirts for collared ones with typeface across the chest and big, lumpy sweaters, high intensity graphic tees in a variety of crazy prints and colors. The other day, he swaggered into the ‘mat wearing a pair of light wash ripped jeans and a _plaid_ _blazer_ of all things, his signature trench coat nowhere in sight. He gave Dean a kiss on the cheek and rolled the sleeves distractedly as they chatted. Dean sees red suede shoes with gold chains, high water pants with bold vertical stripes, collage work.

He loves that Cas is constantly inventing his own style and everything, but it’s all so much new at once. Dean’s feeling a little shell shocked.

“Hey,” he says, squeezing his cell phone between his ear and his shoulder as he maneuvers the television remote. “What’s up?” he asks.

Cas sighs on the other end. “Oh good, I caught you. Has _Dr. Sexy_ started yet?” he asks a little breathlessly.

Dean shakes his head and crosses his legs at the ankle on top of the coffee table. “Theme music’s starting. You still coming over?”

“Yes,” Cas says surely. “I’m just running a bit late. Meg and I were talking and I lost track of time. Do not eat all the popcorn,” he commands.

Dean is still stuck on the _Meg and I_ part of that sentence. “You throw a fit whenever I put butter on it, so don’t worry. I don’t want any of your salty cardboard.” He pauses and glances at the offending bowl by his toe. “Hurry up, ok? I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles, hanging up immediately after and throwing his phone to the other end of the couch. He can feel his cheeks turning red.

One commercial break later, Dean hears tapping on the living room window. He mutes the TV, gets up, and unlocks it. He only shimmies it up about halfway before Cas is clambering inside his apartment feet first.

Dean chuckles against Cas’s lips when he greets him with a kiss. “Climbing up the fire escape and sneaking in through the window every night makes me feel like we’re doing something we’re not supposed to,” Dean mumbles.

Cas ruffles a hand through his own hair – it curls behind his ears now – and smiles at him. “My reputation precedes me.” He leans in again like he’s going for another kiss, but bizarrely Cas just rubs his face against Dean’s for a moment with a hand on his hip. “I’m going to change,” he says as he shuffles down the hallway to Dean’s bedroom.

“You didn’t miss much,” Dean assures him, settling back into the couch. “There was a recap from last week and a new patient got admitted, but that’s about it. I think Sexy and Piccolo are finally going to talk it out,” he rambles over the commercials while Cas changes in the other room.

“Oh that’s right, they’re fighting again,” he hears Cas say. He pretends to watch the episodes, but more often than not Cas ends up asleep on Dean’s shoulder and missing the important details.

Dean hears the creaking of bare feet on wood and instinctively scoots over to make some room on the couch. Cas returns to the living room in one of Dean’s t-shirts and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms neither of them remember buying and nuzzles his nose straight into Dean’s neck. “I missed you today,” Cas says quietly.

“Mm, missed you too,” he whispers, running a hand up the back of Cas’s head. He likes this: the two of them at the end of a long day cuddling on the couch, watching trashy TV and feeding each other popcorn. God, this is so sappy.

“Can you take a day off tomorrow?” Cas asks him, sleepily gripping Dean around the waist. “We should do something,” he mumbles. “Go shopping, maybe.” He’s not even watching the television anymore, eyes slipping closed against Dean’s skin. Typical.

Dean nods against the top of his head. “Sounds nice.”

“Meg opens early, and we can go over whenever,” Cas mumbles, pressing slow kisses to the underside of Dean’s jaw. “You’ll like her. She’s ‘feisty,’ I think you would say,” he continues. The little bit of stubble on Cas’s face catches on Dean’s neck when he talks. It’s heaven.

Dean leans his head against Cas’s and rubs a hand down his back. “I’m sure I will.”

But when Dean picks Cas’s clothes up off his floor that night – no matter how many times Dean will bitch at him about it Cas continues to be somewhat of a slob – a business card with Meg Masters’ contact information and a winky face in the corner flutters out of Castiel’s back pocket, and Dean quickly changes his mind about that.

 

The first thing Dean sees after stepping off the city bus is the four foot, pink foam rubber sign that unapologetically spells “SEX.” It’s draped with twinkle lights. You really can’t miss the place.

“Um. Ok,” he says.

SEX is the new alternative clothing store that opened up a few blocks down from Castiel’s apartment building. Already it’s extremely popular among Castiel’s friends and the gang, and apparently this is where Castiel has been getting his sweet new threads.

Dean has to blink for a minute to get used to it, but Castiel waits patiently for him to adjust. “Half off on denim,” Cas has to say just to coax Dean’s feet into moving.

A little bell dings when the two of them step through the door. Castiel goes in first and immediately wanders off, comfortable and at home. Dean sort of follows him around as Castiel browses, chatting one-sidedly while Dean hums and nods in the right places and glances around, overstimulated.

This store is gaudy as all hell: graffiti splattered on cement walls decoratively draped with chickenwire, rubber curtains trailing along the red carpet floor… there’s a jukebox, a real one that’s coin operated and lights up, underneath the wall of graphic tees. There are leather corsets hanging on the walls between framed art prints, rows upon rows of studded jewelry, and even a conveniently placed glass case packed with sex toys of various sizes, shapes, and colors.

Fuck, it’s _awesome_.

A low, sultry voice wafts over from the counter. “Back so soon, Clarence? And you brought a friend,” it purrs.

Dean and Castiel both turn until they’re looking into the predatory, chocolate eyes of a young woman. She’s got a wicked smirk and a round face – not a sharp edge on her – but her nails are filed and painted jet black. Dean instinctively takes a step back out of fear.

“Meg,” Castiel greets happily. He walks over to the counter and Dean hurries after him.

“Hey there, stud. You gonna introduce us?” Meg asks, inspecting Dean up and down. He already doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him. Assessing, critical, like she’s cataloguing all his weak spots, the fleshy bits she can sink her teeth into. He remembers the winky face on the card in Castiel’s pants.

If this punk rock chick thinks she can steal Dean’s boyfriend out from under him, she’s got another thing coming.

“Dean,” he volunteers himself, leaning around Castiel and holding his hand out to her. _Gauntlet fucking thrown, bitch. Round 1. Ready? FIGHT._

Meg shakes his hand and squeezes a little with her nails, and smirks like she knows exactly what he’s doing. “Got something for you,” she says in Cas’s direction, heading around the other side of the counter.

Meg puts Castiel in a lot of different outfits, asking him to lean this way and untuck that and turn around while she takes a few polaroids until she can tell he’s getting frustrated playing Barbie doll. Whatever he likes at the end of the modeling sessions, though, he’s allowed to keep. That’s how he keeps ending up with this shit.

Dean is actually… kind of pleased. He doesn’t like Meg very much but he can spot the little smile Cas has on when he rolls his eyes at her. He knows _Cas_ likes her, despite being so prickly, and that’s. Well, that’s ok. And he looks smokin’ in absolutely anything Meg styles him in.

Meg even goads Dean into trying on this killer burgundy leather jacket. It’s worn and distressed – the leather is so buttery Dean could practically nap on it – but it fits his obnoxiously wide shoulders and Dean is shocked to admit that he likes it, likes it a lot, when she has him turn in a cracked mirror a few times.

“Lookin’ good, Chisel Chest,” Meg deems. “It’s yours.”

Dean wears her white flag out of the store.

Castiel taps the toe of his boot against the outside of Dean’s foot on the bus ride home. “That fits you very well,” he compliments, nodding down at Dean’s hands where he’s fiddling with the sleeves.

Dean grins. “Like it, huh?”

Cas nods very solemnly. Dean kisses his temple just because he can.

When they get back to Dean’s crumbly place of residence, he hangs his new jacket up on the coat hanger coat rack he made for the back side of his bedroom door, right beside Castiel’s black leather one.

“Hey,” he says, surprised. “We match. Kind of.”

Castiel pokes his head around the door and grins. “That’s nice,” he replies. “I like that too.”

Dean follows him out of the bedroom and back into the kitchen, where he helps Cas prepare lunch for the both of them – plus Hael and Gadreel and Gabriel, who called them ahead of time to announce that they would all be stopping by the ‘mat on the way to a bar.

The jackets stay right where they are: side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off the life, times, and legacy of the incredible Vivienne Westwood and her glorious fucking store.  
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BEWARE THE DRYER MONSTER.

“What if I got a Mohawk?”

Dean grunts as he yanks out the filter tray of the dryer he’s bent over. “Like Gadreel’s?”

Cas shakes his head, tapping his right foot idly. He’s lying on top of the counter, one leg draped over the side and swinging restlessly as he inspects the ceiling tiles. “Those are liberty spikes. I mean just a regular one.”

Dean rolls his eyes as he sticks his head further into the dryer, searching intently. “Go for it,” Dean tells him, his voice a tinny echo in the walls of the machine. “But you’ll get sick of the upkeep in three days, I guarantee you,” he adds.

Cas sighs and turns his head. “I know. You’re right. Have you found anything yet?” he asks, watching Dean clamor around in the dryer.

“Not yet, but I will not be beaten,” Dean promises.

The front door creaks open quietly and Gabriel announces his presence with a booming, “Sup, losers!”

Dean jerks in surprise and hits his head on the top of the dryer. He groans and Gabriel looks over in unrestrained amusement. “What is he doing?” Gabriel asks Cas, pointing a finger in Dean’s direction.

Castiel rolls his eyes and sits up. “He’s looking for missing socks.”

Behind Gabe, Anna chuckles quietly and sets her bat against the wall. “Got a dryer monster with an appetite, Dean?” she teases. Balthazar snorts a laugh and leans up against a washing machine.

In all Dean’s years of washing other people’s shit, he’s never lost a sock. He thought that was just an old wives’ tale. It’s pissing him off.

He surfaces from the interior of the dryer and continues rubbing his sore head. “Haven’t seen a matching pair in _weeks_ ,” he says. “I thought they were getting caught in the lint tray but –”

Gabriel cuts him off with a hand held up in his face. “Cas may put up with this shit, but I don’t actually care, Dean-o,” he informs him sweetly.

“I’ve _told him_ it doesn’t matter, but I think Dean has something to prove,” Cas informs the group, crossing his arms.

“It DOES matter, _Castiel_ ,” Dean says, replacing the filter tray and checking the next one. It’s a sore subject, alright?

Gabriel ignores the dry look Cas is giving Dean’s back. “Speaking of which – Cas! Where the hell have you been, man? You’re like a ghost these days,” he says.

Balthazar is busy inspecting his nails. “Isn’t it obvious, Gabriel? He’s moved on. We’re no longer interesting.” He fake swoons against the machine. “He’s abandoned us for greener pastures.”

Castiel hops off the counter and walks over to his friends. “I haven’t forgotten about you, Balthazar, but frankly it’s none of your business.”

Anna raises her eyebrows. Gabriel does too. They don’t have many secrets between them, so Cas’s defensive tone is unusual.

“Oh. I get it. You’re _nesting_ ,” Gabriel says with a touch of surprise. “Huh.”

Dean scoffs. “We’re not – pft, we’re not nesting,” he says derisively. He deftly deflects with, “You want a beer?” and he’s already headed for the stairs.

“Drinking on the job,” Gabriel tuts. “You sure picked a winner, Cas.”

“I’ll have one,” Cas calls after Dean, punching his brother in the arm.

Dean growls as he shuts the door after him, stomping up the stairs to his apartment. He really is irked about the sock situation, and Gabriel generally isn’t a great influence on his moods.

They all hang out down there for a while, and even though Gabe is a dick Dean is secretly glad for the distraction. He hasn’t seen many other people except for Cas recently, so it’s nice to catch up with everybody. Gabe and Kali broke up again. Anna bought a motorcycle from a girl named Ruby. Balthazar is… well, Balthazar. He claims to have been a part of a “ménage a twelve” maybe a week ago. It isn’t until the sun is going down that Dean realizes they’ve been talking all day; his gut aches pleasantly from all the laughing he’s done. He is zero steps closer to solving the Case Of The Missing Socks and he doesn’t even care.

Cas leads him upstairs by the cuff of his Henley once they leave, and the case is forgotten for a few hours more.

 

Alas, the problem persists.

“Cas! Would it kill you to roll up the socks before you put them away? I showed you like three times,” Dean calls into the other room, holding up a lone, black sock. He hates rifling through his drawer in the morning.

“I would, only I can’t find anything to pair together,” Cas informs him.

Dean frowns down at the sock. “Come on, there’s got to be at least one other black sock in here!”

Cas doesn’t answer him, but Dean crows victoriously when he unearths another one.

“See? Found one,” he declares with no small amount of pride as he parades into the living room, taking a seat next to Cas on the couch so he can put them on and gloat at the same time.

He looks over when he discovers he’s being ignored only to see that Cas is wearing one gray sock and one red one. He crosses his ankles very deliberately.

Dean stares at the socks incredulously. “Really?”

Cas just rubs the back of his neck.

 

Dean gives up shortly thereafter. Cas is right; it doesn’t matter if their socks match, not really. It makes Dean feel cleaner for some reason when they _do_ , but he knows that’s bullshit. They’re just socks. They all end up sweaty and smelly at the end of the day anyway.

Although, Cas’s feet never really smell, and Dean thinks it’s half bizarre and half incredible that he even knows that about someone he isn’t related to.

Anyway, who cares if their socks match? He spends all day behind a counter anyway, and who’s he trying to impress?

One of the kids that come in here sometimes, a blonde brat in a dress named Lilith, assesses him as he moves out from behind the counter to take out the load in washer 2. She doesn’t say anything, but Dean can almost _feel_ her looking at his socks: a blue on his left, a white on his right.

Lilith kicks her feet as she watches Dean work from her waiting chair. Her father just stepped outside to have a cigarette and while Dean’s not a babysitter, he’s usually pretty good with kids. Even though the washers are big enough to fit a kid in, the doors don't lock unless there's money in the machine, so it's not like she could hurt herself. He’s confident he can handle her alone.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” he snaps at the girl.

(Yeah, good with kids.)

Lilith just grins like he’s told her a joke and says nothing. They have a bit of a stare down for a minute while Dean stuffs the wet clothes into dryer 5, but it doesn’t escalate. Not until Castiel comes through the front door with groceries.

“Hey,” Dean greets, only turning for a fraction of a second to see who it is. Lilith’s smirk widens when he turns back around.

“You blinked. I win,” she informs him in her high-pitched, nasally voice.

“Yeah, well at least I still have all my teeth,” he replies, noticing her gap-toothed smile. She frowns and crosses her arms at him. _Cheap shot, old man._

“Terrorizing the public again I see,” Castiel says, coming to stand beside Dean. He’s got two plastic bags in one hand, and rubs the other between Dean’s shoulder blades to relieve some of the tension there.

Dean leans into the touch and sighs. “Did you get toothpaste?” he asks quietly.

Castiel nods and slips Dean’s wallet into his back pocket (it was Dean’s week to buy groceries). “I wasn’t sure what kind to get, so I got two. We can compare notes at a later date.”

Dean snorts. “You practically eat the stuff so it's probably a good thing we're stockin’ up,” he says, shutting the door to the dryer.

Lilith suddenly smiles wide, showing off her crooked smile again. “Hey, you guys match!”

Dean frowns down at his shirt, which is red, and looks at Castiel’s white one. “Not really,” he says, though red doesn’t necessarily _not_ go with white.

Lilith shakes her head and points. “Your socks, dummy.”

“It’s not nice to call people dummies,” Cas informs her with narrowed eyes.

Dean is busy looking down at their feet.

Cas is wearing one white sock and one blue sock, too.

Dean looks up and grins. “Huh,” he says, nudging Cas. “How ‘bout that?”

They stare at each other in dopey silence for a moment. This is, like, weirdly sobering for him. Dean knows he’s been sort of difficult all week, but they’re standing in the middle of Dean’s building together and they make a perfect, imperfect pair. Two halves of one whole. Cas is his matching sock. He really is. He is just so strangely in love right now.

Cas cracks a tiny smile. “I told you it didn’t matter,” he says, before turning on his heel and heading for the stairs.

Dean rolls his eyes. _Bastard always has to prove a point_. “You’re worse than she is,” he mutters after him. Lilith’s too busy looking smug to take offense.

He figures out shortly thereafter that machine 4 has a rickety drum, and that socks have been slipping between the drum and the wash basket. He finds six of them trapped in the pump. He takes off the front panel, removes the socks, and everything is copacetic.

But since it _doesn’t really matter_ , Dean keeps mixing his socks anyway.

Well, their socks. Since they’re “nesting.”

Oh, whatever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern (in)convenience.

Things change when Dean installs an ATM in the laundromat. There’s one down the street at the mini mart, but there’s never been one on his block before.

First of all, he's just tired of people asking him if there is one. Other than, "Can I use your bathroom?" and, "How much can I fit in one machine?" it's probably the most frequent question he gets. Also, (he begrudgingly admits) it would actually be way more convenient if he had one on the premises; the change machine only helps you if you _actually have change_. So he looks into it. He calls Sam and asks him what he thinks, and besides teasing him about joining the modern age of convenience at long last, he’s super supportive.

Dean outright buys a used Hyosung with an eLock and removable cash cassette instead of the standard drawer style. His six-digit pin is IMPALA. He’s glad he sprung for the cassette add-on because it’s way easier to change and allows the machine to hold more cash, so that minimizes the amount of “OUT OF ORDER” signs he’ll be making. Hopefully. He still doesn’t really trust the thing, hulking and an off-center gray with sticking, dirty keys.

He was a little nervous about buying the thing, since it does cost about $2300 to own one even if he does get a discount on a used machine. His wallet’s a little thinner, but he does have some savings from being a cheap bastard all his life and now he’ll get 100% of the surcharge instead of some dinky percentage from the ATM company. Plus, everyone who comes in will know the name “Winchester Laundromat Cleaners,” and that’s basically free advertising. Although its most frequent user is actually Castiel, but whatever.

The addition pays off. Suddenly, Dean starts getting a lot more foot traffic.

 

It’s easy to keep your eyes down in a city and see only what you need to see. When Cas posts an “ATM Here” sign in the front door beside the hours, they see a surprising amount of people doing double takes, wandering dazedly in through the door murmuring, “I didn’t even know we _had_ a dry cleaners.”

Madison is a lawyer’s secretary by night and a dog walker by day. She’s just out of college, a year older than Sammy, and she walks by the ‘mat with her barking brood every Tuesday and Thursday morning with a wild grin that shows all her teeth. She came in once to deposit her tip, and eyed the washing machines shrewdly as she typed in her pin number. She comes in again later that week with a powder blue hamper with spit and dog hair covering every inch of her. She apologizes to Dean every day henceforth for clogging the machine filters.

Kevin, by contrast, is still in college. It’s his first time away from home, and it’s obvious just by looking at him that his mother was his rock in life before now. He has one of those black laundry backpacks stuffed to the brim and waits so long to do his laundry that he’s sweaty by the time he comes through the door. He strips down to superhero-patterned underwear while he throws in a packed-too-tight load and hums concertos under his breath while he waits. He gets money at the ATM for the pizza guy. Sometimes he shares with Dean, but mostly he just sits there with the box in his lap.

The Rourkes came in to get money for a cab one time, and haven’t stopped coming back since Dean waved the surcharge. Layla doesn’t so much walk into the ‘mat as hobble; she carries very little with her and Dean has to hold the door open for her when her face is ashen. There is stubborn hope in her eyes and vomit on her shirts (both symptoms of intensive chemotherapy). Luckily her mother usually comes along to help her. She adores Castiel but doesn’t seem to like Dean very much, for whatever reason.

Cole is an ex-marine that only does the laundry when his wife is busy shopping or taking their son to baseball practice – he plays on Ben Braeden’s team, turns out. He came in to get some money to tip the bar tender. He and Dean get along pretty wonderfully: they hang out with Benny down at Donnie’s bar some nights, swapping war stories and trading turns at the pool table.

Becky is… well, Becky. _She_ came in to get money for this new book signing down the block at the bookstore – she says it’s more personal to pay in cash and she wanted to leave an impression. Dean knows every detail from her life even though he doesn’t care to and never asked. She’s got a crush on this guy who works at said bookstore named Chuck, who is “a total sex god” that writes homoerotic sci-fi fantasy novels. She’s mostly Cas’s friend; he insists on handing back her dry cleaning personally just so they can chat against the counter for twenty minutes. Dean glowers dramatically.

Bela uses the ATM to collect a few single bills here and there. Turns out she works at SEX with Meg, and she’s only been in the laundromat one time when her own machine broke. She washed a silk robe and five pairs of black underwear and smirked at Dean on the way out.

Since Dean decided to move out of the Stone Age, it’s not just old ladies and punks traipsing through his door anymore. Dean is… kind of sad? He was on edge with the change to begin with, but all these new people flocking in and out and sticking their noses into his business get him all huffy and defensive. People who don't know the routine. People who keep slamming the damn dryer doors even though they all have  _magnetic locks_ and keep giving Dean head aches. 

It's the dumb machine's fault.

“Drink some tea,” Cas suggests, eyeing his frown as they fold a load together and trying not to laugh. “It will calm you down.”

“Fuck the tea,” Dean grumbles under his breath. “Fuck the ATM.”

“You love the ATM,” Cas argues, rolling his eyes a little. “You make a lot of extra revenue and you like the little sound it makes when you turn it on.” Cas mimes pressing the power button. “Boop,” he drones, in that deadpan way of his.

Dean, despite himself, laughs. “I like the sound _you_ make when I turn _you_ on,” Dean says, winking.

Castiel looks completely unimpressed, aside from the playful glimmer in his eyes. “Not in front of the customers,” he says, nodding to a few girls sitting in the waiting area. They’ve all got their eyes on Cas and they’re whispering to each other.

That’s another thing – they always have an audience now. Dean hates that. Makes him feel self-conscious, not that he’d admit it.

Dean shrugs, and Cas bumps his hip with his own. “Go. I’ll finish up here,” he promises, swiping the half-folded blouse from Dean’s side of the counter.

Dean’s hands hover in the air like they aren’t used to handing things over (because they aren’t). “Um. You sure?” It's not exactly pleasant standing on your feet all day. Dean should know. 

“Yes,” Cas says, nodding. Some hair falls into his face and he pushes it away. “Go make lunch, and take your time bringing it down.”

Dean nods, and slowly his hands begin to lower. “Ok. Will do,” he says, heading for the stairs.

Cas waves carelessly over his shoulder, already immersed in the task of folding the next shirt with a flourish.

Dean lingers in the doorway for a second, listening to those girls twitter and watching Cas fold mechanically, quickly and precisely. He’s gotten really good at it with all the practice he’s had. He turns to say something to the girls, and they smile and talk back, twirling their hair and biting their lips.

The good part about getting the ATM, Dean has to admit, is that Cas is making some new friends.

“Thanks, Cas,” he murmurs, and then he’s hiking up the stairs to make lunch for the both of them. Maybe he’ll bring down some chips for the girls and he can get to know his new customers a little better.

It’s nice – sometimes – to have the company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was... kind of a weird chapter. I'm still not sure about it but I like the idea... might rework this later on.  
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four times sneaking in doesn't work, and the one time it does.  
> Or, who’d have thought Dean’s mysterious boyfriend was a burglar?

Dean loves having Castiel around the laundromat; this is common knowledge. But he loves having him at home, too. At this point, it is almost a Pavlovian response to hear those infamous combat boots knocking on the fire escape outside Dean’s window. He immediately brightens up when he hears it, like it’s Santa on the roof or some shit.

He leaves the window unlocked at night now, even though he knows that’s kind of dangerous for the part of town he lives in. It doesn’t even stick anymore; Cas can slide it open easily and has learned how to best maneuver his body through the tight squeeze. Dean moves the carpet so it buts up against the window – that way Cas’s knees won’t hurt so much when he comes tumbling in. He can come in any time he wants, without having to lock anything up and without having Dean come down the stairs to collect him, and he can leave just as easily.

It’s a great system, until it isn’t.

The first time their system fails, Castiel almost gets arrested. An anonymous tipper (who turns out to be Mrs. Tate across the street) calls in a burglary at 2:30 in the morning above Dean’s store. "Suspicious looking thug in tight pants," are the exact words used to describe the guy. Henriksen pulls up right as Dean is stripping Cas out of his skinny jeans and has to explain that, _yes, Officer, it’s perfectly fine that he’s here_ with bitten-red lips and two fresh hickeys blooming across his collarbone.

The second time, Cas almost dies. It’s been raining all day on and off, and the fire escape is a little slick. Wet metal plus combat boots with absolutely zero traction equals some very scary, potentially fatal slipping. He manages to catch himself on the railing before he goes tumbling down a story, which wobbles dangerously in his grip. Dean frets over him for a moment and promises to get the thing looked at later in the week. "This would never happen on the stairs," Cas grumbles. Dean pretends not to hear him.

The third time the fire escape proves to be more of a hindrance than a help is when Cas gets cited by a street cop for a code violation. Apparently fire escapes are only to be used in emergencies and not just because he wants to visit his boyfriend – Dean didn’t even know cops _cared_ about that stuff. He gets a ticket for $150 and a lecture that Cas has to restrain himself from screaming through. Dean pays the entire ticket, but only after Castiel convinces him that it isn’t worth it to take to City Hall.

He realizes things have got to change when one Friday Game Night he goes to get the Risk board out from under his bed and has to run back out when he hears a Charlie-pitched scream from the living room. His friend’s got a frying pan in her hand – an actual frying pan from Dean’s cast iron set – and is cowering in the kitchen while Castiel pulls his other foot in through the living room window. He’s got his hands raised in a placating gesture and his desperation melts into relief when Dean comes back into the room. _Not an intruder_ , he tries to tell the crazy girl with the cookware. _Didn’t know you had company,_ he throws Dean’s way _._

Well, that’s how Cas meets Charlie. And nearly gives her a heart attack.

“Doesn’t that kind of suck for him?” Charlie asks, once Cas slinks out with all his bones intact and Dean has explained the situation. “I mean. First off, totally unsafe. He could seriously hurt himself. And I’m surprised nobody’s called the cops yet.”

Dean waves a hand and pops the box off their game. “Nah, they stopped caring after the first time. They like a show,” he says, winking.

Charlie rolls his eyes. “The first time?” she exclaims. “Not gonna lie, dude, this is kinda skeevy. And _so_ high school,” she says, crossing her arms. “Ah, the memories.”

Dean frowns. “Geez, does it really bother you that much? I'm sorry he scared you but it’s just what he does. We make it work.”

Charlie groans. “Forget it. Whatever. Continue to treat him like a dirty secret. I don’t care.”

“Hey, now,” Dean protests.

Charlie knocks his shoulder and swipes his beer from him as she takes the seat opposite him. “I was kidding. Mostly. Now let’s do this thing.”

It takes him a couple days, but he can admit to himself that Charlie’s right. No more code violations, no more late night cop visits, no more near-death experiences, and _no more scaring his houseguests_. Enough is enough.

He closes the ‘mat early and drives uptown to the nearest hardware store with a locksmith.

 

It’s about two weeks later that Cas is just sitting on Dean’s couch when he gets out of the shower. His combat boots are slumped on the floor beneath the window.

“Oh, hello,” Cas says, as if he’s surprised to see Dean in his OWN HOME. “I thought you’d be at least another 10 minutes.”

Dean scoffs, but kisses the top of Cas’s head anyway, wet hair dripping onto his forehead. The spikes on the shoulders of his jacket dig into Dean’s skin a little.

“Gimme a sec,” he says softly. He runs a hand through Cas’s hair before he steps away and smiles all the way to the bedroom.

He doesn’t bother shutting the door as he changes into a fresh pair of boxers and an old t-shirt. As he’s pulling the shirt over his head, a tiny glint of light mocks him from the bottom of the drawer.

He stares at the spot for a moment, heart hammering, and finally yanks it out of the dresser entirely. _You can do this,_ he tells himself. _  
_

“Hey,” Dean says, appearing at Castiel’s side again. “Got you something.”

He feels ridiculous. He should have put on pants for this. He clenches his fist a little tighter and sharp edges of the metal dig into his palm.

Cas frowns but sits up a little. “How come?”

Dean shrugs. “Just cuz. Open up,” he demands, nodding at Castiel’s hands, one in his lap and one wrapped around the TV remote.

Cas puts down the remote and holds out the hand. Dean steps forward and drops a tiny, shimmering object into it.

“It’s a key,” Castiel says. He hasn’t stopped squinting, so.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah. It’s, uh. It’s for the building. You know, so you can… Get in. Take the stairs like a normal person,” Dean tells him, ducking his head. God dammit, he’s blushing. He can feel it.

Cas is silent, and Dean refuses to meet his eyes. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shrugs again. “Yeah, no problem.”

He could stop here. He should shut up right now.

But he doesn’t. He loves Cas, he reminds himself, loves him _here_. “If you wanted to bring some more of your stuff over here, too, I wouldn’t complain,” Dean adds, like he doesn’t already have a drawer in Dean’s room plus a small space on the bathroom counter. “You know. Since you’re here all the time anyway.”

Dean does risk a glance up then, only to see that Cas is full on _grinning_ , eyes bright and happy. He composes himself a little once he notices Dean looking, but the joyous glow still stays obvious in his face.

“Alright,” he says, before turning to face the TV again.

Dean takes a seat on the couch beside him and watches as Cas pulls his keys out of his pocket. He rests his head on Cas’s shoulder as he winds the new key to dangle beside the rest of them. The blue ring Dean remembers saving from the wash that one time, the ring that had facilitated their first kiss, is hanging off the key ring as well. He remembers that it’s very precious, and wonders hopefully if this gift will become precious too, someday.

There. It’s official now.

Cas puts his keys back in his pocket and wraps his arm around Dean, squeezing him closer to his chest. Dean smiles into Cas’s shirt and kisses the edge of his jaw.

They watch TV like that, curled together, and Dean can’t help but think he made the right decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick thing about quarters.

“We’re doing a pull today,” Dean decides. “It’s been weeks and stuff’s starting to get backed up.”

Cas squints at him from where he’s sitting in the waiting area, People Magazine in his lap. He’s dog-eared an article on the Kimye wedding. “What is a pull,” he asks suspiciously, only really half a question.

Dean frowns. It makes sense that Castiel would never be around to be included for a pull: Dean doesn’t like to let other people help with that.

A pull, Dean explains, is the process of collecting all the quarters from the various machines. It requires some physical labor; Dean’s hurt himself a couple of times trying to lift the heavy cassettes with a pulled muscle here and there.  Pulls constitute a huge portion of Dean’s monthly income, so he doesn’t take a lot of help from other people when it’s time to count up. He doesn’t really trust other people with his money – ever since ten-year-old Sam snuck a handful of quarters for gum and arcade games he’s always been a little paranoid some of it will go missing if more people than just him lay their hands on his haul. Other than the dry cleaning and fluff-and-fold services, which he charges for by the pound, the laundromat doesn’t get much other forms of substantiation than the quarters.

“What do you do with all the coins at the end?” Castiel asks.

Dean sighs. “I have to take ‘em to the bank,” he mumbles. He hates going to the bank.

Castiel nods and uncrosses his legs, returning People Magazine to its place of honor in the wicker basket by the last chair in the row. “Well, when do we start?”

 

Cas follows behind Dean while he unlocks the machines with his master key. Each washing machine has a coin slot of its own, and so does every dryer. Some accumulate more cash than others: the ones by the door and the ones on top of the stacks usually have more quarters in them than the low, hard to reach, far away machines. But Dean has waited so long to empty them that each drawer is pretty heavy on its own.

It’s hard to carry those all to the counter, so Dean and Cas take to just dumping them all over the floor. (Cas is wicked lazy.)

By the time they’ve emptied every machine, the place is _covered_ in quarters like it’s tile.

“You know there is a restaurant in Washington called _Lincoln_ that surfaces its floor entirely with pennies,” Cas tells him, oddly intrigued by the metallic way his hands smell.

Dean rolls his eyes, sweating a little. “Of course you would know that. Alright, help me count.”

Castiel sighs and sinks to the floor, spreading his hands across the outer edge of the clinking pile. The coins make a delicious sound scraping all together, and it makes him smile. “Why do _we_ have to count them?” he complains. “Why can’t the _bank_ do it?”

Dean rolls his eyes and takes a seat next to him. “Because the bank teller, Crowley, charges me extra if he has to ‘provide a service,’” he says, air quotes and all, a habit he’s picked up from Cas. “If I tell him how much is here, he doesn’t charge me,” Dean says.

Cas frowns, but shrugs. “Fine. We’ll count.”

It’s not easy. Dean keeps losing count because he looks over at Cas and is too frequently distracted by an adorable little crease Cas gets between his eyes when he’s concentrating. Cas doesn’t lose count once, although he will admit that it’s stupidly endearing that Dean mouths the numbers to himself as he counts.

They only get a little bit of the way through before Cas notices one of the quarters is from Guam. “This has traveled a long way to get here,” Cas says with a smile, holding it out for Dean to see.

Dean smiles when he sees it too. “Hey, look at that. That’s cool – I’ve never seen one of those before. I like the little boat.”

Cas smiles with all his teeth and pulls his hand back, tossing the quarter with the rest that he’s counted. He tilts his head. “I wonder where all the others come from.”

Dean swears under his breath as he loses count again. _26 or 27? 29?_ “Where the others come from?” he asks, starting his tiny pile over.

Cas nods. “Yes. Don’t you think it’s interesting that coins from over 50 different places could ultimately converge right here on your floor? Isn’t that amazing to think about?” he asks.

Dean pauses, pinching a stack of four between his fingers. He turns his hand palm up and shakes it so he can see the backs of the quarters. Nebraska, United States, Virginia, South Carolina. “Huh,” he says.

That _is_ actually pretty cool. Cas has always had this way of making the world so much bigger than Dean’s tiny scope of imagination.

So he and Cas start sorting them, and stop counting for the moment. He rationalizes by saying, _well, it will definitely be easier to keep count if we just count the piles individually and add them up!_ They make piles according to state – Virginia and Massachusetts are early standouts, but so is Delaware. Dean’s never paid much attention to Delaware as a state before. “That’s like… next to Maryland, right?” he asks shyly, in case he’s wrong.

“I think so,” Cas says, then tosses a generic United States quarter behind him.

They keep sorting, and it’s a lot more fun than counting and losing count in silence together. Dean finds a Kansas quarter, pauses to smile to himself, and pockets it. Cas gives him an odd look, but Dean just shrugs. He finds himself telling him about what little he remembers from Lawrence, the gold of the dirt roads and his mother’s hair, the big blue house they lived in with the front porch and the smell of apple pie and lemonade. Cas smiles and holds his hand while he talks.

Cas picks up a California quarter and waves it in his face and says, “Sam,” and Dean pockets that one, too.

He picks up an Illinois quarter a little while later and Cas tells him about Pontiac, picks up a North Carolina and tells him about the rock band he followed one summer with Gabriel, picks up a Mississippi and tells him about river boats and his brief infatuation with gambling. State after state, Cas has a story, and Dean – for once – shuts up and listens as he talks. Cas has been all over the place, knows so much and shares it all with Dean the way he suspects he’s never taken the time to articulate before.

Dean slides the Illinois quarter in Cas’s direction and nods down at it.

Cas takes it, picks it up, and twists in the light for a moment. He puts it in his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's pretty sure he knows what this means.

They've known each other for a very long time, now.

They began as strangers, forced together by the need to survive this place, and then developed a tentative friendship forged from caught-off-guard laughter and easy smiles and flirting that would make Dean's dead _grandmother_ blush. Somewhere along the way, Dean realized that Cas was absurdly fucking hot and another messy layer was piled on top of what they'd already managed to build. 

Then, of course, there's the falling in love.

Dean has always had Cas's attention, whether they were together or not – dude has a staring problem and some sort of issue with personal space (then again, maybe that's just with him). Dean’s gotten used to blue eyes fixed on him as he moves, doing nothing of particular importance and yet somehow still worthy of discovery. He's learned to get over himself whenever he catches it happening (he suspects this happens way more often than he can keep up with), but recently he hasn't been able to clamp down on that fluttery feeling in his chest when he feels Cas staring.

Dean and Cas have known each other a long time, but Cas has never had that kind of devotion in his eyes before.

The whole key-giving thing was probably what set it off. Dean had been keeping their relationship as casual as possible for as long as he could, but the key and the invitation to move in... it's kind of hard to make that platonic. Or insignificant. "Hey, would you consider existing alongside me every day for the near, extended future? I WANT THAT." Right, totally casual.

Dean still gets drunk on it, the fact that they're allowed to have this together despite his general unpleasantness and Cas's wacky family and predisposition to do weird impulsive shit and about six hundred other things that make couples fall apart all the time. Every time he catches blue eyes and a secret smile out of the corner of his eye Dean's heart thumps loudly in his chest, demanding to be listened to.

He finds himself inevitably staring back, and wonders distantly if this is like when John had to explain to him when he was young and stupid that he shouldn't look directly into the sun. Only he's not really that young anymore but still incredibly stupid and there's no one here to yank him away from the bright, burning star that is punk rock loser Castiel Novak. 

It's the best.

"We should do something this week," Dean finds himself saying, pressed tight next to Castiel in bed and running one hand distractedly down his side. Up, down, back up, down, cyclical, calming, grounding. He's staring at the ceiling but he can still feel those eyes on him. "Like go out somewhere," he explains.

Cas smiles against his shoulder. "That sounds nice. Did you have something in mind?"

Dean shrugs. "There's this beer and bacon happy hour thing down at Donnie's. Think Cole's going. Could be fun."

Cas chuckles a little and kisses Dean's skin. "Great."

"Hey, bring Gads. He makes a killing in pool," Dean adds.

"I'll text him," Castiel assures him, kissing up Dean's neck, now. Dean fights a smile.

"Maybe Anna, too. She doesn't get out much. I think that Ruby chick is going to be there, if that's some extra inc-incentive," Dean stutters, twitching under the bite of teeth at his jaw. "What the hell, right?"

"Right," Cas agrees, without pausing in his ministrations. He rolls on top of Dean, kissing more and more of him with open eyes.

"Cas," Dean giggles, as Cas drags his foot up Dean's calf.

Cas kisses the hollow of Dean's throat and spreads his hands across his ribs. "I love you," he says. And he means it. God, does he mean it.

Dean's heart goes  _thumpthumpthump_ and he threads his hand through Cas's wild hair, streaked with the same vibrancy and color he knows shines out his very soul. "Love you back," he murmurs, spreading his legs wider so Cas can settle closer.

It's a weird feeling, wanting someone to be so close they might just  _become a part of you._ He's never felt that way before.

They keep touching each other in the waking light, and it feels like they burn bright enough to shame the sunrise.

 

Cas is out and around running some errands all week, hanging out with his family and going to see the rock shows Dean still doesn't feel comfortable going to. He buys a new pair of Docs from Meg at a discount price. Dean waterseals them for him and gets a kiss on the nose as payment. 

He’s been busy lately. But he does always turn up at the end of the day. Except… he doesn’t stick around for lunch one day.

There’s no awesome Made By Cas sandwich in the afternoon. There’s no sound of Siouxsie drifting down the laundry chute. There is literally nothing to look forward to except the _end_ of the day, when Cas comes home. Dean tries not to be too upset about it, because he can tell that Cas feels bad enough as it is.

“Seriously, babe. Don’t worry about it,” Dean tells him, nudging his arm.

Cas still looks guilty but he kisses Dean extra deep before he leaves, so that’s good enough.

He’s pretty tender with Dean for the next couple of days. He doesn’t touch him or ask to be touched. He always falls asleep before Dean does – or at least pretends to fall asleep – and doesn’t get up to shower with him for the next few mornings after the missed lunch date. Which, ok, fair enough, Dean does get up super fucking early.

Dean can get over a little emotional distance.

He hops into bed on the third night and snuggles deeper into the sheets. When he doesn’t feel a warm body slide in next to him, he turns and sees Cas standing in the doorway, fiddling nervously with his t-shirt.

Dean frowns. “Hey, come on,” he says, kicking the covers out a little to entice him. “What’s up?”

Castiel approaches the bed slowly and sits down on its edge. He’s biting his lip and hasn’t let go of his t-shirt, seems to have no intention of removing it.

“Don’t freak out,” he says quietly.

Dean’s heart stops.

“That is probably the quickest way to get me to freak out,” he replies, a little breathless.

Shit, Cas isn’t getting into bed with him. Is he – oh god, is Cas breaking up with him? No no no, that can’t be happening. No. Is that what the missing lunch and the not showering together means? Oh fuck no. No, no this is happening too fast. Maybe there’s just something Cas doesn’t want him to see: bruises, cuts, bandages, something that will make Dean worry. Whatever it is, Dean’s panicking and he knows it shows in his eyes.

“Dean,” Cas warns.

Dean twitches his fingers towards Cas’s hands, knotted in the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t grab them. He sits up a little. “Are you _ok_?” Dean asks, wishing he could put more force behind the question.

Cas’s eyes dart away. “See for yourself.” He puts his hands in his lap.

Dean scoots up the bed and takes the hem of Cas’s t-shirt in his hands. He looks in Cas’s eyes for a short second before he starts rolling it up, going as slowly and gently as possible just in case something _did_ happen to him.

Strip after strip of Cas’s unblemished, tattooed skin is revealed as Dean hikes the shirt up higher, and one of Cas’s hands has become a vice on Dean’s thigh over the sheets. Dean gets the shirt up to the joint of his arms and Cas hisses a tiny gasp, tightens the grip on his thigh ever so slightly before letting go.

Dean pulls the shirt all the way off, and is relieved that there isn’t any bruising, no stab wounds, no acid burns, nothing out of the ordinary. But then, what is Cas so worried about?

He tosses the shirt away and carefully traces the skin he knows by heart, by hand, counting every single one of Castiel’s tattoos and freckles and scars. He goes up, up, up, over the arms, across the shoulders and sweeping collar bones, still finding nothing unusual until –

There in tiny black letters, right over his heart, is Dean’s name.

 

He stares at it, figures he must be hallucinating. It’s Sharpie. It’s gotta be Sharpie. Gabe’s just messing around with him. The hand has returned to Dean’s thigh.

“Don’t freak out,” Cas repeats.

“You. That’s.”

Cas stays still like he’s afraid to move. “You’re a big part of my life. This is always going to stay with me. I just… projected it.”

Dean feels like he’s going to collapse. “ _Cas_.”

Cas shakes his head. “It’s a lot. I’m not sorry, but I understand that –”

Dean surges up to take Castiel’s face in his hands and kisses him harder than he’s ever kissed anyone before.

Cas absolutely melts into it, the hand not on Dean’s thigh snaking up to rest on his side. His skin is warm to the touch.

“Dean,” he sighs. Dean bites his lower lip.

“Shut up,” he commands. He flips them over so he’s straddling Cas’s lap.

Cas looks a little blindsided by Dean’s sudden reanimation, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He just grabs Dean’s hips and tries to steady them. “ _Dean._ ”

“Did it hurt?” Dean asks, trying to keep the tears out of his eyes. He doesn't think he could bear it if it did. He reaches for Cas’s fly and yanks down the zipper a little carelessly.

Cas’s breath hitches as Dean peels his jeans off. “Not in the least,” he lies, just as Dean gets his ankles free.

“Good,” Dean whines, hiking himself back into Cas’s lap. He grinds down, _hard_ , and then captures Castiel’s moan with his mouth. 

They don’t talk much after that. Dean gets both his and Cas’s underwear off in record time, both of them rock hard and flushed already. Dean takes only a second to prep himself, too impatient to draw it out. “God, _fuck_ ,” Dean sighs as he sinks down so fast it burns.

Cas moans as he bottoms out and grips Dean’s hips hard enough to bruise. “Dean – _oh_ ,” he whimpers, hips jerking up off the mattress and pushing deeper into him.

Dean yanks on his own hair with one hand. The other is slowly creeping up the mattress, clammy and twitchy and needing Cas’s to hold it. He squeezes his eyes shut as he tries not to come undone both emotionally _and_ physically.

Cas tattooed his name on him. TATTOOED Dean’s NAME on his HEART. That shit is permanent and symbolic in a way even Dean can figure out. There is no way in hell he deserves that.

He’s got to show him somehow that he feels it back, that he understands what Cas has done. He’s got to make a gesture of his own.

He does it by bouncing in Castiel’s lap, yanking him in for kiss after kiss after kiss and slowly lighting every nerve aflame. He brings him to the edge fast and hard, over and over again. Dean’s thighs are shaking and there’s sweat collecting at his hairline, slicking his back where Cas grapples for purchase. The fire in his belly burns brighter when he thinks about blunt nails raking into his skin like Cas is carving himself in, marking him up for good too. It’s filthy and rough and _not enough_ and Dean’s losing his mind trying to get more friction between the two of them, rocking more and more desperately. For Dean, for the both of them, actions have always spoken louder than words and right now he feels like he’s screaming.

Castiel hasn’t stopped repeating his name, just a string of broken syllables smashed together too fast. It’s the only one Dean ever wants to hear him say again. Inked on his heart, and now his tongue. Dean loves him so god damn much he thinks he’s going to explode.

Cas grabs his trembling hand in his and squeezes.

 

Once the world stops spinning and the lights behind Dean’s eyes stop flashing, he loosens his grip on Castiel’s hand. Cas’s eyes are wide and blue and awed, his hair a wreck, his mouth slick and open. “Uh,” Cas says. He sounds totally breathless and surprised as he says it, like this is a side to Dean he didn’t expect, an energy released full force into him that he could never predict. He’s looking at Dean like he’s a hurricane headed straight for him.

Dean finally _does_ collapse after that, right onto Castiel’s chest, and runs his fingers over the four new letters. “What does your family think?” he asks, smearing his thumb over the tiny ‘D’ and so thrilled when it doesn’t wipe away.

Cas laughs. “Anna came with me to the appointment.”

It clicks. “Oh. That was nice of her.”

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

Dean smiles. “Is this her way of giving her blessing?”

Cas shrugs. “I wouldn't know – she’s never given it before.”

Dean laughs until the tears he’d been holding back squeeze out his eyes, and splays his whole hand protectively across the ink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoOOOOOO MY GOD SO SAPPY I'M SORRY  
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a little early, but here. Have another holiday installment.

“Aw come on, Cas! You’re really not gonna dress up for Halloween?”

Castiel looks like he can barely resist rolling his eyes. He does give a huff of indignation, however. “No.”

Dean tsks. “Fine. You don’t want to, no skin off my nose. But let’s get one thing straight,” he says, taking a step forward and shoving a finger in Castiel’s face. “I WILL dress up. And I WILL embarrass you.”

Castiel cracks a tiny smile and nods. “Understood. Will you also be trick or treating?”

Dean punches him in the shoulder. “We can just buy bags of candy at Walmart, you doof. That way we don’t have to sift through all the shit we don’t like. It’s called _being an adult_.”

Cas nods. “Ah. Right. Because we are adults.”

“Very mature adults,” Dean agrees, pecking his cheek. He lingers there a moment so he can whisper in his ear. “Also, we are gonna have tons of hot role play sex,” Dean informs him, not able to resist the impulse to brush his lips against the shell of Cas’s heavily pierced ear.

Cas raises one eyebrow – that hot, arched one that Dean goes crazy for. “Hm,” is all he says. He’s totally fantasizing. Awesome.

He leans up against the counter and pretends like that’s not exactly what he’s doing. “Meg is throwing a Halloween party at SEX tonight. Does that interest you at all?”

Dean’s eyes go wide. “Oh, man. _Meg’s_ throwing one? Damn, I might actually be a little bit scared.”

“Do you want to go or not?”

Dean grins. “Oh, I definitely want to go.”

Cas rolls his eyes, but the expression on his face is fond. “I’ll let her know we’re going to be there.”

Dean nods and picks up a laundry basket. “Sounds good. But will she even let your un-costumed ass in? That’s almost sacrilegious.”

“Halloween is not a sacred holiday, and of course she’ll let me in,” Cas says, smirking at the tail end of his rebuttal.

Dean bristles at the obvious double meaning. So maybe he hasn't entirely overcome his jealousy. “Yeah, whatever.”

Cas smiles to let him know there are no hard feelings. It only sort of works. “We’ll have to leave here earlier than usual if you want to get there on time,” Cas says.

Dean shrugs. He’s gotta stay cool, can’t give anything away yet. If he looks too conspicuous, Cas will know he has something big planned for tonight. “How ‘bout I just meet you there, ok? Gotta close up,” Dean tells him, trying to make his voice as sweet as possible. Give himself no reason to be of suspicion. 

Cas squints but ultimately nods. “Alright. If you say so.” He lifts his hand from his pocket in a wave. “I’ll see you later tonight, then.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean smirks. “You will.”

Cas knocks the cackling fake skeleton hanging on the wall as he leaves the building, and shakes his head as its jeweled eyes flash at him.  _Thing's a classic,_ Dean had said, ventriloquizing the posable jaw.  _It's hideous_ , Cas had replied.

Dean loves Halloween and while he had thought it to be Punk Christmas for the longest time, it has been made apparent that Castiel does not share his sentiments about the holiday. He doesn't have a sweet tooth, scary movies don't scare him ( _"predictable?" nah, Cas, you've been watching the wrong kind of movie_ ), and he doesn't like dressing up. Dean, however, goes ALL OUT. You better believe he's stocking up on candy and has a killer DVD collection picked out for later tonight. He's already made Cas suffer through The Wolf Man - from 1941, duh, because it was on TV - and scared him in the bathroom by hiding behind the shower curtain. He paid dearly for that one.

And the crown jewel of the evening, without which no Halloween can bear: a totally kick-ass costume.

 

Dean grunts as he hoists his outermost layer on. The denim is scratchy on his bare shoulders. He’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, door left open just a crack, watching himself do unspeakable things to his body. “Can I change my mind? I don’t like this idea anymore,” Dean calls out to the hallway.

Gabriel snorts. “No can do, Dean-o! You’ve committed.”

Dean grunts again. “Oh, come on,” he grumbles down at his pants, fiddling with his belt. “You’re sure it’s not too much?” he asks Gabe. Why Cas’s brother agreed so eagerly to help him with this, he’ll never know.

“Of COURSE it’s too much! That’s the POINT! Now come on, lemme see,” Gabe commands, shoving the door open with his boot.

Dean turns on one heel and splays his hands. “Well?”

He feels ridiculous standing here like this. The pants he’s wearing, too tight with too many belts and buckles and zippers and chains hanging off them belong to Michael – apparently they’re similar sizes – the patches on his vest were donated by Anna, and the fake piercings lodged in his nose, his bottom lip, his ears are all Hael’s, left over from her _middle school_ days. He’s got so much black ringed around his eyes he can see it when he blinks. He even allowed Gabriel to spike his hair up into a fauxhawk and streak it through with some blue paint.

Seriously, he feels ridiculous.

Gabriel laughs with his whole body and slaps both hands on Dean’s denim-clad shoulders. “Hot damn, Winchester,” he says. “Finally lookin’ like one of the crew.”

Dean chews on his fake lip ring. “Great. Can we get going now? We’re already late.”

Gabe winks. “Fashionably.” He shakes his head and laughs some more. “Oh boy. Cas isn’t gonna know what hit him.”

He knows he looks good, but Gabe's comment still bothers him as he laces up his Goodwill-issued platform boots.  _Finally_ , he'd said, as if this were a transition Dean had been dragging his heels with. Did they honestly all expect him to change what he looked like because they started hanging out? Because he was committed to Cas? Sure, the punks inspired his tattoos (he'd gotten a few more little ones since those first two - a Vonnegut bird cage on his thigh, dog tags for Dad - so he can't claim to be that naive sorority girl anymore), but he didn't go through with it just so he could fit in with them or earn their respect.

Did... Cas say something to him? God damn it, this was just supposed to be a funny costume. And now Gabe's turned it into a guessing game, making Dean wonder if their relationship can ever be enough for Cas when Dean doesn't appear to have any _interest_ in really being "one of the crew." When he so obviously doesn't fit in.

Dean barely remembers to leave a cursory bowl of candy in the alcove of the laundromat.

 

Meg has totally transformed the SEX interior. It’s darker than sin with pulsing lights in deep, rich colors flashing in time with the pounding bass, skulls and bones hanging up on the walls and grotesque (plus the occasionally phallic) jack-o-lanterns littering the counters. People are grinding up on each other and jumping wildly like they’re possessed, but it’s laughably easy to spot Castiel. He’s leaning up against a wall watching it all happen around him, cool as ever in a white t-shirt that Dean's never seen before with slicked back hair and a cigarette dangling from his lip, black motorcycle jacket flung carelessly over his shoulder.

That motherfucker. He said he wasn’t dressing up.

“Hey there, hot stuff,” someone says to Dean’s elbow. He turns, and a woman who is undeniably Meg Masters in a blonde wig and a white dress immediately loses the lust-filled smirk when he does.

“Oh, Jesus, it’s _you_ ,” she says, full of disgust.

Dean waggles his eyebrows. “See something you like, Meg?”

Meg grins patronizingly. “It’s ‘Marilyn’ tonight, Ken Doll.” She looks him up and down a little more thoroughly and makes a face. “You look good,” she admits.

Dean fidgets under the scrutiny but smirks to cover his nervousness. “Thanks. Killer party.”

Meg rolls her eyes. "Go rescue your boyfriend,” she says, walking away and disappearing into an absurdly large group of people dressed in leather. She squeezes his exposed bicep as she passes. “Firm,” she comments, impressed.

Dean slinks over to Cas.

“Hey there,” he purrs, leaning up against the wall with an arm above his head. “Come here often?” he teases.

Cas glances at him and looks away almost instantly. “Yes, frequently.”

And that’s it. That's all he gets.

Dean blinks. “Uh. Right.” He coughs, put off by Cas’s dry tone and his complete unapproachability. Maybe he’s method acting the costume; Dean _did_ say he was into role play. Cas is so unlike himself: totally closed off, arms folded to his chest and unsmiling. Bored, almost.

He nods once, but doesn’t otherwise react to Dean’s presence. He gets the distinct feeling that he’s being ignored. Dean licks his lips and tries again.

“Place looks real nice. It’s kind of hot in here though, don’t you think? Although, maybe that’s just you.”

Cas sighs. “Yes, that’s very nice of you but –” It is at this moment that Castiel turns to look at him again. He ends up doing a double take, eyes comically wide.

“ _Dean?_ ”

Dean winks, a hint of tongue peeking out between his teeth. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Cas doesn’t even laugh – he’s too busy gaping. “Did you put that on yourself?” he asks, reaching for Dean’s face, looking right into his kohl-rimmed eyes.

“What? I’ve watched you do it enough times,” Dean says, allowing Cas to twist his face this way and that to catch the light. “You like it, don’t you,” he suspects.

Cas doesn’t appear to be listening. “Are those permanent?” he asks, glaring at Dean’s lip ring. _Those better_ not _be permanent_ , the set of his mouth says.

Dean scoffs and brings his hand up to remove the magnet. “Fake. Just part of the costume,” he explains.

Cas narrows his eyes and jerks his head. “Put it back in,” he commands.

“Heh. That’s what _she_ – right, yep, ring going in.”

Cas smiles as Dean runs his tongue over the inside, situating the magnet where it belongs. “Speaking of costumes, what the _hell_ dude, you totally played me,” Dean said, waving at Castiel’s torso.

Cas shrugs cheekily and reaches out to fit his hands across Dean's hips. “I’m supposed to be James Dean. Get it? _Dean_. I thought you’d find it amusing.”

Dean chuckles, low and dirty, and leans into the touch. “I find it… something, alright,” he says, nipping at Cas's bottom lip.

Cas hums and lets him, pulling him in close up against the wall by his belt loops. “It’s a nice party. But maybe we should go,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes.

Dean scoffs. “Are you kidding me? I just got here! We’re definitely staying for _at least_ another hour,” he says, pulling back. Somehow their hands have found each other and they stay connected like that, swinging them back and forth. “Come on, dance with me,” Dean demands. "It's your romantic obligation."

Cas pretends to be annoyed, but allows Dean to drag him to the dance floor.

The Misfits are going in the background and Dean is proud to say he recognizes the song. They jump up and down, nodding their heads and grabbing at each other and kissing in between the verses, and Dean’s a little relieved that Cas seems to be having so much fun. He definitely loosens up as the song goes on, swinging his hips a little and singing along in Dean’s ear even though they're occasionally stomping on each other's toes. Their leather boots knock together as they dance and somebody sprays them with a torrent of fake blood.

"That's gonna be a bitch to clean," Dean remarks, looking down at Cas's ruined white shirt.

Cas tucks his head against Dean's neck, smearing the blood between their chests, and Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Cas laugh harder than he does right then.

 

They make a gruesome pair, standing on the corner a block away from where the party’s still happening. Their shirts are caked with prop blood and Dean’s eyeliner is dripping down his cheeks a little. It’s what he gets for using the cheap stuff. Cas’s hair had fallen out of its perfectly slick coif a long time ago, and a strand hangs dangerously close to his eye, soaked in sweat. He holds Dean’s hand as they wait for the bus. They're both a little cold standing out in the chill. 

“You know, as good as you look, I do miss the regular you,” Cas tells him.

Dean lifts their joined hands and kisses his knuckles in response. “I’m perfect just the way I am?” he jokes.

“Exactly,” Cas declares, leaning heavy into Dean’s side. “Just the way you are. Warm and soft and smelling like soap.”

“Fuck you, I’m not ‘soft,’” Dean protests. There’s no heat in the remark; he presses another kiss to the ridge of Castiel’s knuckle.

“Soft,” Cas repeats, no room for argument.

Dean smiles and lowers their hands, swinging them slowly between their two bodies. His nails are painted black – they’re already chipping and Dean’s spiked and studded bracelets clang together as they move. Dean watches their hands with a small frown.

“So it doesn’t bother you?” he asks, quietly. “That I don’t – that I’m not _like_ you and Gabe and Mike?”

He’s maybe always been a little afraid of the answer. Cas is this unstoppable force that's seen just about everything and takes no shit and Dean just runs a laundry service.

Castiel turns to look at Dean with a pronounced frown and a line between his narrowed eyes. “Of course it doesn’t. It never has.”

Dean shrugs and lifts a hand to his face to remove the lip ring. The nose ring follows. “Good, cuz this shit is really uncomfortable. I don’t know how you guys do it.”

Cas laughs quietly and nudges Dean’s shoulder with his own. “I meant what I said. You are... perfect. The way you are.”

Dean rolls his eyes and pretends that didn't just hit him square in the chest. "Yeah, well, you are too. Glad we're on the same page."

They stand there, sneaking glances at each other, until the bus pulls up to the curb. The doors wheeze open and Dean drops Cas’s hand at last. “Well, let’s go home then,” he murmurs. He’s starting to feel pretty tired all of a sudden and he just wants to get to bed. And take all this damn makeup off.

He still makes Cas smile. “Home,” he repeats it quietly under his breath. Like he’s thankful, even though Dean is just Dean and the apartment is probably balls cold right now.

But it's where each of them can go to be themselves, to be loved wholly and completely for being just that person. It's where they can go to listen to the music they both like and take bubble baths and argue over clutter on the bedroom floor and cry into each other's shoulders and laugh over a shared bowl of popcorn and an old spaghetti western.

Dean grins as he steps onto the bus, because there is nowhere and no one else he would rather be. “Rock n roll.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many of you guessed Dean's costume! I feel cheated. Am I that predictable? Anyway, I heart Halloween y'all. Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kids these days.

There is a thump against the door one morning.

Cas sighs in a way that makes him sound much older than he is. “I told you we should have put up a ‘pull’ sign,” he says. Dean rolls his eyes and hops over the counter to let the poor soul in.

The person apparently unable to open his front door is mostly hidden by the giant sack of laundry they carry in their arms; Dean can make out the knobs of bony ankles and some ratty converse, plus an oddly bright red set of pants.

The sack shifts in the person’s arms to reveal a wide set of eyes set in a sweet baby face and a small mouth parted slightly in what might either be surprise or alarm. Sweat is beading along the top of his forehead. 

The kid looks utterly lost. 

He’s wearing a striped shirt that has “Weiner Hut” embroidered very loudly on it and he smells like stale French fries wrapped in raw meat.

“Hi,” Dean grunts to the flustered teenager. “Ever been here before?” he asks gruffly.

He already knows the answer – he knows every person that comes through here by name – but he figures he should say something before this kid pukes all over his floor.

“No,” the kid sighs, struggling with his laundry bag. “I just moved out of my parents’ place and I realized I’ve never done laundry before in my life and my apartment doesn’t have space for a washer/dryer and -- there’s grease on my uniform and I'm out of underwear. Please,” he pleads, eyes glistening. “Help me.”

Dean simply turns on his heel and snaps over his shoulder. “Come on,” is all he says.

He hears the kid’s shoes squeak quickly behind him, and locks eyes with Cas from where he’s doing a crossword puzzle behind the counter. He shakes his head at them, and Dean winks.

“What’s your name, kid?” Dean asks, swinging open the door to an empty washer.

“Alfie,” he chirps, setting his bag down at his feet. “So… I just…?”

Dean snags the sack of laundry out of Alfie's arms and drags it next to him without another word. "I'm only doing this once, so pay attention. I'm not your damn mom."

Alfie seems to get the message, and watches intently as Dean throws article after article of dirty, pinstriped clothing into the drum of the washing machine. He's only got about 25 pounds here,  _maybe_ 30 -- that's kind of on the low end, and it won't take Dean long. His cheeks flare in mortification as a pair of soiled underwear falls at Dean's feet, but Dean doesn't even flinch -- he just picks it up by the waistband and chucks that in, too. Nothing he hasn't seen before.

Alfie regards him like he's a soldier come home from war, like a man who has in his heyday probably seen a few things too unmentionable to share in polite company. Dean appreciates the respect. 

He points to the laundry detergent resting on top of the adjacent machine, and Alfie follows his gaze. Dean holds out his hand wordlessly, and Alfie jumps. "Oh, right, um," he stammers, before handing over the bottle.

Dean unscrews the cap and tilts it so Alfie can see inside. "Fill up to this line. Dump it in the tray," Dean instructs, illustrating.

Alfie watches in rapt attention. "Right. In the tray," he repeats. "Just that much?"

"Hey, this stuff packs a punch. You don't want to go washing everything twice just to get the soap out cuz you used too much," Dean cautions. Usually he recommends the dry stuff, but he doesn't need to confuse the kid more than necessary. Liquid will work just fine for now.

Castiel, who knows Dean's washing habits a little too well, scoffs quietly at the substitution as he watches the two of them.

Dean points aggressively at the coin slot next to the soap tray, and Alfie hastily shoves in six quarters. He returns back to his silent, statuesque post beside Dean as he gently presses the start button. Dean steps back to watch the machine for a moment or two -- just to be sure things will drain properly and he won't scar the kid -- and he feels Alfie imitate him, staring with intense focus at the rotating bundle of cloth.

Dean nods when he's sure that everything's running smoothly, and then gives the same nod to Alfie, who looks a little less frazzled. "Come get me when you're ready for the dry cycle," Dean tells him. Then, he turns on his heel and walks back over the counter, peeking over Castiel's shoulder at his progress on the crossword. He's doodled a little skull and crossbones in the corner. Alfie hesitantly takes a seat in the waiting area.

Cas is smirking down at the page, idly twirling his pencil in his hand -- Dean can tell he's only pretending to be working. "You're much too intimidating to work in customer service," he informs him quietly.

Dean shrugs. "Kid's gotta learn, but that don't mean he has to do it all on his own."

Cas fondly shakes his head and lazily fills in 11 down. "You're very naturally paternal," he comments. Dean doesn't even think he's kidding.

"Whatever."

Alfie tries not to watch the odd pair as he waits for his laundry to run its course, but the waiting area is just so close to the counter. He can hear every little whistle of breath, is a reluctant witness to every small glance of - could that be affection? He had been very intimidated by Dean, with his solemn pout and tense, broad shoulders and blunt, perfunctory explanations. The other one though, the one with his shoulder pressed to the laundry-man's, he's scary for a whole different reason. 

Alfie checks the clock on the wall and then glances at the timer on his washer. Only 38 minutes left in this hell.

There are other people milling about the laundromat of course, but Alfie hadn't paid much attention to them when he'd first stumbled in. There's a young lady in a yellow waitress uniform with her hair tied up across from him, an older gentleman in the corner, a family with two little girls by the door. 

Occasionally someone comes up to the counter to ask Dean a question, or someone comes through the doors and heads straight for the scary man (without so much as blinking) to hand him their order ticket. One of them will disappear into the back for a few minutes, and the other will write up a receipt and take some cash from them. When the other one comes back to front, usually toting a garbage bag or two of clean, folded clothes or a few dry cleaning garment bags, the other will switch places, heading to a back room with the change in his hand. Alfie begins to notice the little touches between the two of them in passing: hands on the dips of lower backs, elbows nudged into rib cages, toes run up along the soft swells of calf muscles. It's intimate, but fairly secret. They work perfectly in tandem. It's strangely... comforting to watch. The harmony, the gentleness. It makes this place feel less foreign, less _sterile_ than it ought to. 

Alfie's timer ticks down to 00:00 and he stands on tingling legs, looking to the counter for guidance. Only the punk is there, Dean making a run into the back for one thing or another, and he raises his eyebrows at Alfie in an unexpectedly helpful way.

"Um?" Alfie mutters.

The punk one gives him a small smile. "He'll be right with you. Wait just a moment."

Alfie nods and sits back down.

Just as Dean returns to the front of the counter, briefly locking eyes with Alfie, a loud shuffling woman with a tin in her hands and an apron around her bulging waistline walks up the center aisle. "Mornin' boys," she drawls, smiling wide enough her cheeks puff out.

"Good morning, Missouri," the two men at the counter recite. "I hope that's for me," the laundry-man says, nodding down at the wrapped tin in her hands.

Missouri rolls her eyes at him. "Sure is. Made fresh this mornin'. Apple, just how you like it, Dean," she says graciously, sliding it across the counter into Dean's waiting hands.

"Mmm, and still warm. Missouri, I ever tell you how great you are?"

"Not nearly as often as you should," Missouri replies, though she's still smiling at him in his reverie. "You enjoy that, now," she says, twisting away.

"Thank you, Missouri," both men parrot after her.

She waves over her shoulder and then she's gone.

"Alright!" Dean crows. "Cas, look. Pie for breakfast," he announces, grinning over at the other man. He waves the tin under his nose for emphasis.

The punk - Cas - smiles back at him. "Oh good." He sneaks an exasperated look over in Alfie's direction, who is too stunned to do anything but continue to watch their weird domestic exchange.

It all suddenly makes sense to him. 

"Oh," he says aloud. "I didn't realize you two were married."

Dean chokes around air, nearly dropping the dessert in his hands, and Cas's eyebrows go up as much as his grin widens. "We - I - no, see - I mean, yes, but - WAIT, no, because it's not -" Dean struggles to say.

Cas puts a hand on his arm to silence him and bites back a laugh. "You aren't the first one to say that," he tells Alfie, though his eyes are still on Dean.

Alfie relaxes slightly, worried he'd overstepped. "How long has it been?" he asks, just trying to be polite.

Cas frowns and opens his mouth to speak ("Oh, no, we're -") but Dean jumps in before he can. "Not that long. Almost a year," he says, a little red in the face.

Cas turns to look at him, seemingly taken aback, and adds very quietly, "Yes. About that long."

Alfie nods, and gestures at them. "Congratulations," he feels compelled to say.

"Thanks," Dean replies, rubbing the back of his neck. Cas is as still as a statue.

Dean breaks away from him and gestures jerkily to the washer with Alfie's wet clothes. "Let's um. Take care of that," he says, an awful lot less intimidating than when they started. 

"Yeah, thank you," Alfie sighs, hurrying after him.

Alfie gets his clothes washed and dried in record time. Dean drags him by the shirt sleeve over to a center table and shows him how to fold a shirt so it won't wrinkle on the bottom. The two little girls run between their legs and the parents hiss after them. Dean smiles and rolls up a pair of socks.

As he walks out the door, sweet smelling and warm, Alfie leans over the counter to say his goodbyes. The back is dimmed to a low, dull glow, and Cas leans against the doorframe of an office. He is smiling slowly at Dean, who's wiping his hands off with a wet wipe. The teenager's eyes widen when Dean's arms snake around his middle; Cas barely reacts beyond a quick upward tick of the lips. Dean mumbles something in his ear as he hooks his chin over his shoulder, arms slipping to loosely circle his middle, and Cas's lips tick upward still. 

Dean catches Alfie's wide eyes, and startles him into an awkward wave. One that he hopes encompasses his gratitude and his anxieties all at the same time.

Dean nods solemnly in Alfie's direction, lights flickering above his head, and squeezes Cas tighter as if he isn't even aware he's doing it. His mouth is grim as they stare at each other, like Dean's the jaded old cowboy sizing up the kid that almost got him killed six or ten times over the course of a gritty Western as they part for the last time. It feels weighted, heavy, and Alfie's itching to leave.

Instead of being offended by Dean's obvious dislike for him Alfie's heart feels oddly lighter at the brief look they share, as if the laundry-man has more important things to do than entertain a confused and skittish greenhorn like himself. He steps away from the counter without another word.

Cas kisses Dean's temple as Alfie walks away, oblivious to the fact that they briefly had an audience, and Dean hides a smile in the meat of his shoulder.

It is just another day at the laundromat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (shhh I'm a horrible updater I know.) Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter is coming.

The days grow colder, slowly but surely. Dean starts pulling hats and scarves down from the top shelf of his closet, huffily shoving wool and knit at Castiel, who seems to think that all the protection from the elements that he needs is a flimsy trench coat and a pair of skinny jeans _without_ holes in the knees. Dean tugs on the piercings in Cas’s ears to keep him warm when he catches his teeth chattering – the bite of cold steel against his skin when he kisses him stings and always steals his breath away.

The heat has never been that great in the building. Laundry detergent DOES actually freeze, you know, so some of their customers come in despairing and armed with Tide slush as the days grow shorter. This is why Dean sticks with the fucking powder.

It gets quiet around the laundromat, too. Not many people are willing to leave the warmth of their houses to do laundry every week. Trips become further and further in between. People travel for holidays and school breaks. Sam re-extends his invitation from the fall to have Dean (and Cas, he amends) in the Golden State for Christmas. Dean, never one for flying, politely declines. With his odd sense of loyalty, Cas cancels most of his Christmas plans as well so that they can spend it together.

They get a Christmas card from a Naomi Novak in the mail, a month before the holiday. The message is short, sweet, but not too sentimental.

Dean pins it up on the fridge and doesn’t even question how she might have gotten his address.

 

One of the washing machines breaks in the middle of the week. Dean tries to order a new one over the phone, but the manufacturer informs him that the black chrome style he likes in this particular model is out of stock, and it will be a three-and-a-half week wait time for a new shipment. Dean hangs up the phone and swears a lot at the phone receiver. Castiel rubs his shoulders, and they stubbornly wait the four weeks to get the exact machine they want.

Benny installs the new one over the weekend, and then they all go to Donnie’s for lunch and a few rounds of pool.

Alfie is the first one to use the new machine, and he doesn’t need any of Dean’s help. He just gives him a salute when he walks in.

 

“What if we made our own detergent? Surely that has to be more efficient. Not to mention frugal.”

“Fat chance, Martha Stewart.” He doesn’t even bother pretending that he isn’t a little intrigued by the idea.

Cas spends the rest of the day researching on Dean’s laptop. “We don’t have any Borax, do we?”

Dean kisses him until he forgets about it entirely.

 

Dean decides to experiment with Tide pods. He switches back after Cas rolls onto one that had somehow fallen into their bed and smears detergent all over their sheets.

 

There is an email in Dean's pitifully empty account.

johvelle@gmail.com

to me

3:01 AM (8 hours ago)

Dude look at this shit

The last two words are hyperlinked. Dean clicks them.

He slams his palms on the sides of his laptop once the webpage loads. “Cas. CAS. A combination laundromat/tattoo parlor,” he announces excitedly, already turning the laptop around to show his boyfriend.

“Absolutely not,” Cas says firmly. “My family would never leave. There’d be no peace.”

 

“Someone left a pen in the dryer!”

Dean throws his head back and groans. “Are you serious? Who the fuck,” he mutters to himself. Then he hops over the counter and goes to help Castiel.

His hands have dark blue splotches all over them. “It’s all over my hands,” he despairs.

Dean smirks. “It matches your hair,” he comments.

He only gets a glare in response. “ _You_ deal with this,” he commands sternly, no room for argument. “I’m going to wash this off.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies, squatting down to inspect the damage to the drum. “Hey, but can you snag me a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the closet?” he calls after him.

“Fine,” Cas huffs. Dean tries not to smile. It’s not funny, it’s really not.

“Love you,” Dean calls.

He hears Cas grumble a vague reply, and Dean is so incredibly grateful that this beautiful man continues to put up with his ridiculous shit.

 

Dean’s unloading the last dryer for a wash order and Castiel is sweeping the floor. He drags the bristles of the broom through the grooves between fat white tiles and taps his fingers on the handle to a non-existent drumbeat. He doesn’t pay much attention to Dean as they each go about their assigned chores; just sweeps the dirt and dust bunnies out the front door and shakes the broom out after they tumble away down the sidewalk.

Castiel walks back into the laundromat, shaking a little dirt from his hands, when he looks over at Dean and jerks to a standstill.

Dean has taken almost everything out of the dryer and dumped it into a basket, but he’s just standing in front of the machine holding something in his hands. It’s a child’s sock, a soft pretty pink, no bigger than Dean’s palm. Castiel holds his breath as Dean smiles down at it and pets at the seam with his thumb. He looks so gentle and beautiful Cas doesn’t even know what to do with himself.

He wonders if Dean wants children. If he’s ever envisioned himself as a father someday, changing diapers and teaching his daughter to ride a bike without training wheels or cooking dinner for his son after school or… It’s suddenly so clear in his mind, envisioning Dean doing those things in a nice imaginary kitchen, tiny pink socks sliding on hardwood floors.

He’s never thought about it before. Castiel has never been particularly partial to kids himself – he has never understood them, not even when he was one – but maybe, if that’s what Dean wants.

Well.

Cas supposes he could want that someday, too.

 

He’s making a sandwich at Dean’s kitchen counter, just a simple PB&J for himself. Dean’s eating Cool Ranch Doritos right out of the bag at the table, humming along to The Offspring. Castiel chuckles when he catches him playing the air guitar with dusty fingers in the reflection of the microwave.

“Hey,” Dean says. Castiel almost doesn’t hear him over the din of the music.

He reaches over to turn down the volume on the radio. A streak of peanut butter sticks to the dial and Cas wipes at it agitatedly. “Hm?” he tosses over his shoulder.

Dean tilts his head, this deliriously goofy smile still stretched wide between his cheeks. “You’re awesome,” he tells him seriously.

Castiel laughs. “You too,” he promises.

Dean gets up to hug him, but changes his mind at the last second and yanks one of the piercings in his ear instead. “So awesome,” he repeats.

Cas bumps his hip with his own, and Dean retaliates by shoving him in the shoulder. Cas makes the fatal mistake of smearing some peanut butter on the cut of his cheekbone, and it all dissolves from there.

A full on wrestling match ensues on the kitchen floor – food is flung, cheap blows are dealt, someone gets kneed in the nuts, and jovial shrieking fills the tiny apartment. Rain is falling outside. It patters against the windows to the same rhythm that Dean’s pulse beats behind his ears. The radio has changed to a Tina Turner song.

They’re laying side by side in the aftermath, bruised for the better and covered in peanut butter, and Dean turns to stare at Cas’s face. His abdomen is still spasming with little giggles, and it makes Dean grin too.

They make such a good team, him and Cas. Even when they’re fighting. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy in his whole life.

Cas meets his eyes, blue hair fanning out behind him a little, and Dean blinks long and slow. Cas blinks too. He slides closer and dips his nose against Cas’s.

“Hey. Wanna get married?”

 

His building is a relic from the 70s. It has an uneven foundation and cracks in the walls. The heat doesn't work. Sketchy characters hang around in the alley.

Together, Dean and Castiel make it a place to call their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit. It's... over. For now at least. Wow, I'm so sad.  
> Thank you to all my wonderful, amazing readers. You have made this project so incredibly worthwhile. I can't believe I started this concept a year ago - it has grown so much since then. I never could have imagined the shape this would ultimately take. I'm glad I had the courage to post it here.  
> Come cry with me on [tumblr.](http://www.ozonecologne.tumblr.com)


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